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THE   AFTER-SCHOOL    SERIES. 


CLASSIC 


GERMAN   COURSE 


II  ENGLISH. 


WILLIAM  CLEAVER  WILKINSON. 


NF.W  YORK: 

CHAUTAUQUA     PRESS, 

C.  L.  S.  C.  Department, 

805    IjROAIJWAV. 


■  ••Jll         '  3'    1     1» 


OTHER  VOLUMES  IN  THE  AFTER-SCHOOL  SERIES 

BY   THE  SAME   AUTHOR. 


*  Preparatory  Greek  Course  in  English 
**  Preparatory  Latin  Course  in  English. 
***  College  Greek  Course  in  English    .     . 

****  College  Latin  Course  in  English     .     . 

Classic  French  Course  in  English  .... 


$1  00 

1  00 

1  GO 

1  00 

60 


The  required  hoohs  of  the  C.  L.  S.  C.  are  recommended  hy  a  Council  of  six. 
R  must,  however,  be  understood  that  recommendation  does  not  involve  an  ap- 
proval hfi  the  Council,  or  hy  any  member  of  it,  of  every  principle  or  doctrine  con- 
tained in  the  book  recommended. 


Copyright,  1S87,  by  Phillips  &  Hunt,  New  York. 


D 


Tq^ 


PREFACE. 


The  present  volume  has  an  object  similar  to  that  of  each 
volume  preceding  in  the  After-School  Series  to  which  it 
belongs.  It  aims  to  enable  readers  knowing  English,  but  not 
Gennan,  to  acquire,  through  the  medium  of  the  former  lan- 
guage, some  satisfactory  acquaintance — acquaintance  at  once 
general  and  })articular — with  the  chief  classics  of  German 
literature. 

The  method  proposed   of   accomplishing  this   is — having 
first  premised  a  rapid  summary  sketch  and  characterization 
of  German  literature  as  a  whole — to  select,  with  some  Spar- 
tan hardness  of  heart,  from  among  German  authors  no  longer 
living,  those  generally  acknowledged   the  best,  and  present 
'these  through  translation,  in  specimens  f  I'om  one  or  more  of 
^^    their    respective    masterpieces — whether    prose    or    verse — 
accompanied  with  such  comment,  biographical,  explanatory, 
^   critical,  as  may  be  judged  desirable  in  order  to  securing  the 
"'^fairest  and  fullest  final  impression   on   the   reader's  mind, 
primarily,  of  the   true   characteristic   individual  quality  of 
*^^each  author  treated,  and,  secondarily,  of  each  author's  his- 
toric relation  and  influence. 
kN       The  limits  imposed  by  the  size  in  which  the  volume  a]t- 
■"  ^^^>t'<n's  were   accepted   by  the   writer  as  on  the  whole  judi- 
^  ciously  chosen,  but,  at  any  rate,  as  fixed  and   unchangeable. 
His  simple  problem  has  been — problem  simple,  though  found 
far  enough  from  easy — to   make  the  best  possible  use  of  the 
inelastic  space  at  his  disposal.     Considerate  judges  will  esti- 
mate? his  success  with  wise  respect  to  the  conditions  midcr 
whicli  he  has  necessarily  worked. 


4024(56 


4  Preface. 

Hitlierto,  in  the  present  series  of  books,  some  regard  has 
steadily  been  had  to  the  pro})ortion  in  the  study  of  foreign 
tongues,  living  and  dead,  observed  by  the  average  American 
school  of  higher  education.  Modern  languages,  especially 
the  French  and  the  German,  but  more  especially  the  German, 
have  of  late  been  encroaching  somewhat  on  the  ancient  pre- 
serves prescriptively  belonging  to  those  two  great  languages 
of  antiquity,  the  Greek  and  the  Latin,  in  the  courses  of 
study  established  by  our  colleges  and  universities.  Thus 
far,  liowever,  their  place  therein  remains,  and,  as  the  present 
writer  thinks,  properly  remains,  generally  less  than  that  of 
their  elder  kindred.  The  room,  therefore,  narrow  though  it 
be,  given,  in  the  pages  which  follow,  to  German  literature,  is 
after  all  not  so  very  inadequate — measured  in  comparison  with 
the  quasi-authoritative  standard,  to  which,  as  now  hinted, 
habitual  deference  has,  throughout  this  series  of  volumes, 
been  paid. 

It  has  not  been  thought  necessary,  or  even  desirable,  in  ful- 
iillment  of  the  purpose  of  the  present  volume — more  than  in 
the  case  of  the  volumes  preceding  in  the  series — that  the 
author  should  frequently  either  make  new  translations  of  his 
own,  or  secure  such  from  other  hands,  for  the  extracts  to  be 
introduced.  A  fresh  version  will  indeed  here  and  there  be 
found  in  these  pages;  but  for  the  most  part  recourse  has 
been  had  to  translations  previously  existing  in  English.  In 
general,  for  each  ease  as  it  arose,  the  writer  has  compared 
various  translations  one  with  another,  as  also,  of  course,  with 
their  common  original,  sufficiently  to  satisfy  himself  what 
rendering  was,  all  things  considered,  best  suited  to  his  pur- 
pose; and  then,  besides,  in  the  particular  passages  finally 
selected  from  considerable  works  for  transfer  to  his  ])ages, 
he  has  collated  his  chosen  version  wdth  the  corresponding 
German  text,  in  order  to  make  corrections  or  improvements 
observed  by  him  to  be  needed.  In  some  instanres,  however 
— instances  in  which  the  authority  of  the  translator,  either 
for  scholarship  or  for  literary  skill,  was  great — he  has  re- 
mitted this  caution. 


Preface.  5 

Nothing  further,  perhaps,  in  the  way  of  explanation,  is  re- 
quired— unless  to  say  that  the  present  writer  may  be  under- 
stood, acting  under  a  sense  of  serious  responsibility,  to  have 
formed  independently  for  himself,  though,  naturally,  not 
without  much  comparative  study  of  vai'ious  discussion  by 
others,  the  literary,  and  by  occasion  the  ethical,  judgments 
and  opinions  which  he  has  here  committed  himself  to  express. 

On  the  whole,  it  is  a  humble  work,  for  a  work  so  arduous 
and  so  full  of  risk  to  himself,  that  the  writer  herewith  sub- 
mits to  the  public.  He  hopes  that  he  tshall  at  least  be  found 
to  have  done  no  injustice,  either  to  the  authors  whom  he 
presents,  or  to  the  readers  to  whom  he  presents  them. 


CONTENTS 


■>••  PAGE 

German  Literature 7 

II. 
Luther 24 

III. 
Kloi'Stock 40 

IV. 
Lessixg 56 

V. 

WlELAND 83 

Herder 104 

YII. 

RlCUTER     122 

VIIL 
Interlude  op  Poets  140 

IX. 
Goethe 160 

X. 
Schiller 221 

XI. 
The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists 265 

XII. 
Heine 297 

XIII. 

El'ILOGUE 319 

Index 324 


CLASSIC 

GERMAN  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH. 


GERMAN    LITERATURE. 

To  Germany  may  justly  be  accorded  the  i)aradoxical  dis- 
tinction of  possessing  at  once  the  most  voluminous  and  the 
least  voluminous  national  literature  in  the  world.  Our 
meaning  is,  that  while  the  aggregate  bulk  of  books  written 
and  printed  in  the  German  language  would  probably  be 
found  to  exceed,  and  even  vastly  exceed,  that  of  those 
written  and  printed  in  any  other  language  whatever,  you 
would  certainly  look  elsewhere  in  vain  for  a  second  example 
of  a  national  literature  in  which  the  proportion  of  what, 
judged  at  once  for  substance  and  for  form,  could  be  pro- 
nounced choice  and  admirable  was  equally  small.  The 
German  genius  is  prolific  in  thought,  it  is  eager  for  expres- 
sion ;  but  of  beauty  in  expression  for  thought,  it  is  far,  very 
far,  from  being  correspondingly,  we  need  not  say  capable, 
l>ut  desirous.  The  result  is,  as  we  have  intimated,  that, 
while  of  literature,  in  the  large,  loose  sense  of  the  term,  the 
(Tcrmans  have  even  an  ovei'-supply,  of  literature  in  the  strict, 
narrow  sense,  they  possess  comparatively  little.  Little  com- 
paratively, we  say;  for  absolutely  they  possess  much.  And 
of  this  much  in  (piantity,  a  part  at  least  is  in  quality  very 
tine. 

Our  concern,  in  the  present  volume,  will  be  chiefly  with 
what  is  best  in  German  literature.  We  shall  leave  to  one 
side,  merely  mentioning  perhaps,  as  we  pass,  all  that  enor- 
mous contribution  of  the  German  mind  to  classical  scholar- 


Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


ship,  to  sacred  hermeneutics,  to  dogmatic  theology,  to 
metaphysic  speculation,  to  exact  science,  to  histoiical  re- 
search. This  has  been,  it  still  is,  it  always  will  be,  im- 
mensely important  to  the  accumulation  of  intellectual 
treasure  for  the  human  race  ;  it  is  even  widely  and  endur- 
ingly  important  to  the  development  of  literature— the  liter- 
ature of  the  world  at  large,  as  well  as  of  Germany  ;  but 
proper  literature  itself  it  is  not.  In  short,  literature  in  the 
higher  sense  of  that  terra — polite  literature — has  never  yet 
been  to  Germany  the  favorite,  fullest  expression  of  the 
national  genius. 

During  a  certain  limited  period  of  time,  such  did  indeed 
seem  almost  to  be  the  case.  The  period  which  had  its  long 
and  splendid  culmination  in  Goethe  was,  no  doubt,  a  pre- 
dominantly literary  period  in  Germany.  Long,  Ave  thus 
suffer  ourselves  to  call  the  culmination '  of  that  period  ; 
yet  in  truth,  accurately  considered,  the  culmination  was  not 
long,  but  short.  It  seems  long  only  in  a  kind  of  illogical, 
illusive  association  with  the  lengthened  life-time  and  length- 
ened productive  activity  of  Goethe  himself,  the  space  between 
whose  birth  and  whose  death  spans  well-nigh  the  entire  chief 
literary  history  of  Germany.  Klopstock  published  the  be- 
ginning of  his  3Iessiah  in  1748  ;  in  1749  Goethe  was  born. 
What  Avas  there  in  German  literature  before  the  3fessiah  of 
Klopstock?  In  1832  Goethe  died;  in  1826  Heine  had  pub- 
lished the  first  installment  of  his  masterpiece,  the  Pictures  of 
Travel.    What  has  there  been  in  German  literature  since  ? 

Of  course,  Ave  speak  broadly,  and  Avith  only  approximate 
truth.  Klopstock  was  not  the  earliest,  and  Heine  is  not  the 
latest,  of  German  authors.  Still,  it  is  one  of  the  chiefly  le- 
markable  things  about  the  history  of  literature  in  Germany 
that  that  literature  should  first  have  been  so  tardy  in  begin- 
ning, and  then  should  haA^e  apparently  exhausted  itself  in  a 
development  so  sudden  and  so  short. 

So  tardy,  however,  in  beginning,  as  Ave  shall  thus  seem  to 
have  represented,  German  literature  in  reality  was  not.  You 
have  to  run  back  from  Klopstock,  two  centuries,  to  Luther, 


German  Literature.  9 

to  find  the  true  moment  from  which  to  date  the  dawn  of  a 
national  literature  in  Germany.  The  national  literatui-e  of 
Germany,  we  ought  perhaps  rather  to  say.  For  even  before 
Luther,  the  German  mind  had,  as  it  were  unconsciously, 
grown  at  least  one  literary  product,  important  enough  to  be 
justly  called  in  itself  a  literature,  and  racy  enough  of  the 
soil  from  Avhich  it  sprang  to  be  called  emphatically  a  national 
literature.  AVe  refer,  of  course,  to  the  anonymous  epic,  the 
Nibelungen  Lied,  so  styled.  This  poem,  however,  the  Iliad 
of  the  German-speaking  race,  belonged,  not  only  in  its  prob- 
able first  state  of  pure  oral  tradition,  but  also  in  the  modified 
written  form  to  which  a  later  age  reduced  it,  to  an  order  of 
things  that  had  been  completely  superseded  long  before 
Luther  apj^eared.  The  ejiic  itself,  in  Luther's  day,  had  been 
forgotten,  or  at  least  lost  utterly  out  of  sight.  In  truth,  a 
catastrophe  in  literary  history  had  intei'vened,  which  sepa- 
rates the  age  of  the  Nibelungen  Lied  irom.  the  age  of  Luther 
as  absolutely  as  classic  Greek  and  Roman  antiquity  is  sepa- 
rated from  the  times  in  which  we  live.  Nay,  this  comparison 
understates  the  fact.  For  with  the  now  living  literature 
of  Germany  the  Nibelungen  TAed  has  far  less  genetic  con- 
nection than  have  the  foreign  and  ancient  literatures  of 
Greece  and  Rome.  It  is  proper,  accordingly,  to  treat  the 
current  German  literature  as  a  growth  rooting  itself  in  a 
national  past  no  more  remote  than  the  age  of  the  Reforma- 
tion. Luther,  it  deserves  to  be  added,  did  not  in  his  time 
stand  solitary,  though  he  stood  suj^reme,  as  founder  of 
modern  German  letters.  Hans  Sachs  is  a  late-resuscitated 
name — a  name  which  should  never  have  been  suffered,  to 
sink  into  need  of  resuscitation — worthy  to  ride  in  the  same 
orbit  of  literary  fame  with  Luther,  as  a  brilliant,  though  in- 
ferior, satellite  by  his  side.  Ulrich  von  Hiitten,  too,  was  a 
knightly  man  of  letters,  who,  with  far  less  of  shrewd,  homely 
popular  instinct  than  characterized  either  one  of  these  two 
contemporaries  of  his,  had  genius  enough  and  wit  enough  to 
have  made  his  part  in  the  Epistoloi  Obscurorwn  Vzrorton, 
h.id  he,  wlien  writing  his  conti'ibution  to  that  immortal 
1* 


10  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

series  of  pasquinades,  written  in  German  instead  of  in  Latin, 
a  permanent  classic  of  the  language. 

But  Luther's  was  the  true  vivific  literary,  as  well  as  relig- 
ious, mind  of  the  period.  The  mighty  master-spirit  of  the 
great  Reformation  stamped  with  his  foot  on  his  native  soil, 
and  forthwith,  obedient  to  the  sign,  there  sprang  up,  for  his 
"  dear  Germans,"  along  with  a  purified  Christianity,  a  new 
vernacular  literature.  These  two  things,  but,  alas,  not  these 
alone.  Wars,  too,  were  awakened — dreadful  wars,  amid 
which,  and  in  the  sequel  of  which,  for  whole  generations, 
literature  and  Christianity  alike  seemed  near  going  hopelessly 
down  together  in  Germany.  Seldom  in  the  history  of  the 
world  has  it  happened  that  a  civilized  country,  destined  after 
all  to  survive,  and  to  survive  in  eventual  power,  was  brought 
so  close  to  the  brink  of  irrecoverable  desolation  as  was 
Germany  (1618-1648)  by  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  No 
wonder,  if  a  people  almost  annihilated  did  little  more  than 
persist,  and  perhaps  somewhat  revive,  during  the  first  ages 
succeeding. 

Even,  however,  during  the  flagrancy  itself  of  the  Thirty 
Years'  War,  some  brilliant  flames  shot  up  to  show  that  the 
German  national  mind,  though  deeply  smothered,  was  yet  not 
quenched.  It  was  now  that  Kepler,  the  great  mathematical 
philosopher,  confidently  committed  to  the  keeping  of  the 
world  his  magnificent  contributions  to  the  science  of  as- 
tronomy— with  that  majestic,  prophet-like  saying  of  his, 
never  surpassed  for  sublimity  by  any  uninspired  utterance 
of  man's:  "My  book  may  well  wait  a  century  for  a  reader, 
since  God  has  waited  six  thousand  years  for  an  observer." 
Leibnitz's  infancy  was  rocked  by  the  dying  throes  of  the 
tliirty  years'  earthquake  that  shook  Germany;  but  Leibnitz, 
a  peer  in  intellect  of  the  greatest  of  philosophers,  and  natu- 
rally, withal,  as  Kepler  was  not,  a  literary  man,  wrote  almost 
exclusively  either  in  Latin  or  in  French,  and  so  added  nothing 
to  the  proper  wealth  of  his  country  in  letters.  One  name 
alone  stands  conspicuously  forth — though  even  this  one  soli- 
tary name  conspicuously  not  to  the  reader,  only  to  the  student 


German  Literature.  11 


of  literature — as  continuer,  for  those  desolate  years,  of  Ger- 
man literary  history.  Opitz  was  in  letters  a  great  boast,  a 
great  authority,  and  really  a  great  beneficent  force,  to  his 
contemporaries;  but  the  fact  that  Opitz's  name,  the  foremost 
of  his  day — and  his  day  of  renown  was  long,  it  outlasted  his 
life — should  signify  exactly  nothing  Avhatever  now,  except  to 
the  specialist,  sufficiently  illustrates  the  completeness  of  the 
swoon  in  which  the  literary  mind  of  German)^  was  sunk. 

This,  however,  was  the  time  of  Paul  Gerhardt,  that 
noblest  of  the  Lutheran  lyrists,  leading  a  numerous  choir 
of  brethren  in  sacred  song.  The  Christian  Church  still,  and 
now  in  many  different  tongues,  sings  some  of  the  sweet, 
pathetic  hymns  born  of  that  time  of  trouble  in  Germany. 
"O,  sacred  head,  now  wounded"  (in  its  German  fcn-m  a 
translation  by  Gerhardt  from  a  Latin  hymn  of  the  twelfth 
century,  by  Bernard  of  Clair\  aux),  is  one  of  these.  "  Give 
to  the  winds  thy  fears,"  a  more  heroic  strain,  also  Gerhardt's 
(John  Wesley's  paraphrase),  is  another  inheritance  to  us  all 
from  the  German  psalmody  of  this  period. 

If  Luther  bequeathed  to  Germany  the  inestimable  advan- 
tage of  a  catholic  literary  language,  thus  first  making  it 
possible  for  a  catholic  German  literature  to  exist,  this  service 
of  his  to  letters,  creative  of  unity  and  conducive  to  strength, 
was  in  part  offset  by  another,  an  indirect  result  of  his  ac- 
tivity, tending,  on  the  contrary,  to  division  and  feebleness. 
For  when  the  tumults  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War  subsided  at 
last,  then,  in  addition  to  the  general  deatli-like  exhaustion 
of  national  strength  produced  by  the  struggle,  there  was 
found  to  have  been  precipitated  in  deposit  upon  Germany  a 
political  system  of  so  many  petty  states  and  sovereignties, 
indei)eii(lent  of  each  other,  that  the  German  republic  of  let- 
ters had,  and  could  have,  no  recognized  center  and  capital. 
The  state  of  things  that  existed  before  was  like  indeed, 
but  less  evil.  Luther,  thus,  at  the  same  time  that  he  oi-igi- 
nated  a  condition  of  the  language  friendly,  had  in  effect 
originated  a  political  condition,  temporarily,  at  least,  more 
hostile  than  ever,  to  the  prospect  of  unity  and  prosperity  for 


12  Classic  German  Course  in  Miglish. 

the  literature  of  Germany.  The  inspiring  sentiment  of 
national  unity,  of  national  dignity,  was  lost.  Worse  :  the 
sentiment  of  national  liberty  ha<l  expired.  For  the  hundred 
separate  governments  under  which  Germany  was  left  to 
groan  were  a  hundred  separate  despotisms,  crass,  stolid, 
stupid,  and  all  of  them  organized  to  be  vexatiously  meddle- 
some in  proportion  as  they  Avere  ridiculously  small.  And, 
to  think  of  it ! — during  the  time  that,  on  the  country  which 
had  but  lately  given  its  mightiest  launch  to  the  modern 
human  mind,  this  nightmare  of  literary  impotence  was  rest- 
ing— during  that  very  time,  in  England,  Milton  was  chanting 
his  Paradise  Lost  j  in  France,  the  clustered  glories  of  the 
reign  of  Louis  XIV.  were  tilling  the  heavens  with  light ! 

But  a  great  change  impended  for  Germany.  A  bold,  long 
step  forward  was  now  suddenly  to  be  taken  in  that  grand 
forced  march  toward  national  unity  for  Germans  which  it 
was  reserved  for  our  own  times  to  see  finished  at  last  in 
triumphant  arrival  at  the  goal,  when,  with  far-heard  sound 
of  celebration.  King  William  was  proudly — too  proudly  ? — 
crowned  at  Versailles  first  Emperor  of  Germany. 

A  century  had  passed  after  the  close  of  the  Thirty  Years' 
War,  and  Frederick  the  Great,  in  1740,  became  king  of 
Prussia.  In  this  shaker  of  kingdoms  the  German  spirit  as- 
serted itself  once  more.  It  ceased  to  sleep  as  if  the  sleep 
of  death.  The  fresh  impulse  felt  was  military  and  political, 
rather  than  litei'ary  or  even  intellectual;  but  the  law  of  the 
conversion,  or  translation,  of  force  works  very  widely,  and 
the  movement  from  Frederick,  which  began  in  war  and  in 
politics,  went  over  also,  transposed,  into  the  world  of  the  in- 
tellect and  of  literature.  Besides,  the  new  king  was,  in  his 
way,  a  man  of  letters.  True,  he  was,  as  it  were,  a  foreign 
man  of  letters,  despising  the  language  to  which  he  was  born, 
and  himself  writing  only  in  French.  But  there  was  at  least 
light  now  where  had  been  "darkness  visible"  befoi'e;  atid 
a  ray  of  light  from  the  throne — much  more,  when  the 
throne  is  that  of  Frederick  the  Great — becomes  "illustrious 
far  and  wide."     The  royal  example  contributed  at  first  to 


German  Literature.  13 


confirm  the  wretcliod  tendency  already  then  prevalent  among 
Germans  to  imitate  slavishly  in  literature  the  omnipotent 
French;  but  it  also  in  the  sequel  incited  some  stronger,  freer 
spirits,  notably  Lessing — that  Luther  of  a  literary  reformation 
in  Germany — to  declare  their  intellectual  independence. 
Even  those  German  authors  themselves,  of  Frederick's  time, 
whose  literary  mission  it  was,  as  they  conceived  it,  to  practice 
and  to  teach  obedience  to  French  canons  in  the  art  of  writing, 
were  pricked  with  patriotic  ambition  to  prove  to  the  disdain- 
ful monarch  of  Prussia  that  native  German  genius,  uttering 
itself  in  native  German  speech,  was  not  so  wholly  to  be  de- 
spised. Gottsched  was  the  chief  of  such;  but  it  is  credital>le 
to  Frederick  that  Gellert,  a  quite  different  writer,  less  ag- 
gressively French,  succeeded  better  than  Gottsched  in  mak- 
ing a  favorable  impression  on  the  royal  arbiter.  As  between 
these  two  writers,  the  general  verdict  has  since  confirmed 
the  preference  of  Frederick. 

Whether  or  not  it  was  some  spirit  breathing  in  the  fi'ee 
air  of  Switzei'land,  there  arose  contemporaneously  in  the 
Swiss  city  of  Zurich  a  German  literary  school,  with  Bodmer 
at  their  head,  who  waged  open  war  on  the  French  classi(!ism 
of  Gottsched  and  his  fellows.  The  Zurich  circle,  however, 
in  refusing  to  be  French,  did  not  after  all  become  truly  in- 
dependent and  German.  They  were  only  otherwise,  perhaps 
more  judiciously,  dependent,  and — English.  Bodmer  jDub- 
lished  a  German  translation  of  Milton's  Paradise  Lost.  This 
was  a  literary  event  of  prime  importance  for  German3^  It 
gave  her  the  Messiah  oi  Klopstock;  and,  with  the  publication 
of  the  Messiah  of  Klopstock,  the  long-arrested  development 
of  German  literature  began  fairly  to  go  forward  again. 
Lessing,  Herder,  Wieland,  Goethe,  Richter,  Schiller,  and  a 
score  of  names  only  less  than  these,  now  follow  one  another 
in  rapid  succession,  or  jostle  each  other  in  crowvled  simul- 
taneous appearance.  The  firmament  of  German  literature  is 
suddenly  full.     It  blazes  with  stars  and  with  constellations. 

German  literature,  considered  as  a  body  of  recognized 
classics,  remains  to  this  day  very  much  what  the  great  age 


14  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

of  Goethe  bequeathed  it  to  the  world.  VVe  need  not  theie- 
fore  bring  down  our  historical  sketch  to  a  point  lower  than 
the  date  here  reached. 

Briefly  now  as  to  the  forms  or  kinds  in  which  the  literature 
thus  sketched  has  appeared. 

Unlike  the  French,  and  like  the  English,  German  literature 
inclines  as  naturally  to  assume  the  form  of  verse  as  it  does 
the  form  of  prose.  In  epic  poetry,  however,  that  is,  epic 
poetry  of  the  first  class,  it  cannot  be  reckoned  rich.  The 
two  chief  German  poems  which  might  claim  for  themselves 
the  highest  epic  rank  are  the  Nibehingen  Lied  and  the  Mes- 
siah of  Klopstock  ;  of  which  the  former  is  rather  interesting 
and  remarkable  than  reallj^  great,  and  of  which  the  latter  is 
remarkable,  perhaps,  but  hardly  either  great  or  interesting. 

In  dramatic  poetry  German  literature  is  strong;  Schiller's 
single  name  being  sufficient  to  give  it  beyond  cavil  that 
character.  With  Schiller's  name,  however,  are  to  be  joined 
the  names,  not  far  unequal  to  his,  of  Goethe  and  of  Lessing, 
as  representatives  of  the  drama  in  Germany.  It  is  to 
tragedy,  rather  than  to  comedy,  that  the  grave  German 
genius  instinctively  turns  to  find  its  favorite  dramatic  ex- 
pression. Still,  Lessing  was  witty  enough  to  be  a  success- 
ful writer  of  comedy.  German  Moliere,  there  is  none  ; 
but  that  he  would  have  liked  to  be  one  is  a  confession  of 
Lessing's. 

In  lyric  poetry  German  literature  may  vie  with  any  other 
literature,  either  of  ancient  or  of  modern  times.  What 
battle  pseans  are  finer  than  Korner's  ?  What  strains  of  patriot- 
ism more  spirit-stirring,  or  more  pathetic,  than  Korner's, 
Arndt's,  Uhland's  ?  What  love-ditties  sweeter  than  the  best 
of  Goethe's  and  the  best  of  Heine's  ?  What  songs  of  sentiment 
tenderer  than  those  which  any  one  of  these  masters  of  the 
German  lyre  upon  occasion  sings  ?  And  finally,  what  hymns  of 
worship  nobler  than  a  few  at  least  which  Luther  and  Paul 
Gerhardt  have  led  the  whole  Christian  Church  in  lifting  up 
on  hi  oh  ? 


German  Literature.  15 


If  we  go  now  froui  verse  to  prose,  we  light  at  once  u])on  a 
kind  of  literature  in  which  German  prose  and  German  verse 
find  common  ground,  and  in  which  German  literature  easily 
surpasses  every  other  national  literature  in  the  world.  We 
refer  to  the  literature  of  folk-lore:  the  traditionary  tale,  the 
fairy  story,  the  popular  myth,  the  romance  of  the  super- 
natural. Goethe  speaks  of  the  "eternal  womanly."  So  we 
might  speak  of  the  "  eternal  child-like,"  and  predicate  this  as 
a  common  characteristic  of  the  German  mind.  And  of  the 
German  child-likeness  of  genius  there  is  no  better  expression 
than  that  found  in  its  "Miirchen,"  so-called;  a  class  of 
stories  in  which  the  improbable,  the  whimsical,  the  weird, 
the  ghostly,  the  grotesque,  runs  riot  without  check.  The 
brothers  Grimm  are  universally  known  as  masters  in  this 
kind.  Goetlie,  who  loved  to  try  his  hand  at  whatever  man 
could  do,  wrote  Marchen.     So  did  Tieck,  so  did  Hott'man. 

In  history — to  make  the  transition  now  from  the  world  of 
fancy  to  the  Avorld  of  fact — in  history,  considered  as  science 
and  as  philosophy,  Germans  have  long  been  pioneers,  dis- 
coverers, leaders,  marching  in  the  van  and  forefront  of  the 
world;  but  in  history,  considered  as  literature,  they  are  not 
proportionately  conspicuous.  The  historians  Niebuhr,  Ne. 
ander,  Ranke,  Mommsen,  are  great  names;  but  even  Momm- 
sen,  the  most  brilliant  writer  of  the  four,  is  less  brilliant  as  a 
writer  than  he  is  profound  and  exhaustive  as  an  historical 
scholar.  And  it  is  curious,  almost  paradoxical,  that  of  the 
brilliancy  which  does  belong  to  him  as  a  writer,  a  large  part 
is  the  brilliancy  of  the  advocate  and  the  sentimentalist, 
rather  than  the  l)riHiancy  of  the  narrator.  Respecting 
Schiller,  it  may  be  said  that  it  is  chiefly  his  fame  as  poet 
that  keeps  up  his  credit  as  historian. 

In  criticism,  Germany  again  takes  high  rank — the  very 
liighest,  perhaps,  according  to  what  is  now  accepted  as  the 
wisest  current  opinion.  This  remark  applies  to  criticism  in 
that  wide  sense  of  the  wor<l  which  includes  criticism  of  art, 
as  well  as  criticism  of  literature.  Winckelmann,  Lessing, 
Herder,  Schlegcl,  llumboldt,   (ittctlic,  are  held  to  liave  ad- 


Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


vanced  the  work  of  the  critic  from  mere  em^jiricism  to  the 
dignity  of  a  science  and  a  philosophy. 

In  metaphysics,  in  psychology,  in  speculative  theology, 
and  in  exact  scholarship  as  well,  there  have  always  been 
found  Germans  to  take  great  delight  and  to  achieve  remark- 
able results.  There  are,  in  the  realm  of  pure  thought,  no 
names,  ancient  or  modern,  mightier  than  Kant,  Fichte, 
Hegel,  Schelling.  German  theologians  we  need  not  name, 
nor  German  scholars.  But,  as  has  already  been  hinted,  the 
results  of  such  intellectual  activity  have  not  often  been 
presented  to  the  world  by  Germans  in  form  to  constitute 
elegant  literature. 

There  is  one  kinct  of  literature  in  which  Germans  have 
always  been  singularly  weak,  and  that  is  the  literature  of 
public  discourse,  eloquence,  oratory.  Whether  it  is  due  to 
fault  in  the  language,  to  defect  in  the  national  genius,  or  to 
infelicity  of  historical  circumstance,  the  fact  remains,  that 
there  is  absolutely  almost  no  great  oratory  in  German  liter- 
ature. If  Luther  is  not  the  only  exception,  we  at  least  can 
not  name  any  other.  With  the  growth  of  freedom  in  Ger- 
many, perhaps,  this  will  change.  But  which  is  it  that  produces 
the  other?  Does  freedom  give  birth  to  eloquence?  Or  is 
it  eloquence  that  gives  birth  to  freedom  ? 

So  much  for  the  different  recognized  species  or  forms  in 
which  German  literature  has  appeared. 

In  the  course  of  its  a])pearing  in  these  various  forms, 
German  literature  has  exhibited  certain  exterior  peculiarities 
of  which  something  has  been  already  incidentally  said  in 
preceding  pages.  We  may  ])erhaps  usefully  resume  and 
supplement  the  suggestions  thus  made. 

The  abundance  of  books  in  German,  the  comparative  scar- 
city of  German  books  highly  admirable  at  once  for  matter 
and  for  form,  the  lateness  of  German  literature  in  beginning, 
the  interruptedness  of  its  subsequent  history,  are  points 
which  have  been  sufficiently  remarked, 

A  further  point  attracting  attention  in  the  present  survey 
is  the  dependent,  imitative,  parasitic  disposition  constantly 


German  LUerutare.  17 


manifested  by  the  Germans  in  their  literature.  Menzel 
reckons  five  different  epidemics  of  literary  imitation  in  Ger- 
many, which  he  names  in  order — a  Gallomania,  a  Grtecomania, 
an  Anglomania,  a  New  Anglomania,  a  New  Gallomania. 

Another  noteworthy  thing  is  the  tendency,  at  once  quar- 
relsome and  social,  prevalent  among  German  writers,  to 
classify  and  cluster  themselves  in  mutually  conflicting  local 
schools  or  coteries.  There  were  the  Gottingen  group,  the 
Leipsic  group,  the  Hamburg  gi'oup,  the  Zurich  group,  the 
Silesian,  earlier  and  later,  the  Swabian,  and,  greater  than 
any  other,  greater  than  all  others,  the  Weimar  group.  The 
associative  tendency  thus  pointed  out  may  be  referred  to  the 
same  originating  cause  with  the  national  tendency  spoken  of 
to  follow  foreign  models  in  literature.  Both  tendencies 
probably  sprang,  we  will  not  say  from  weakness,  but  from  a 
sense  of  weakness,  in  the  German  mind,  an  instinctive 
feminine  leaning  toward  exterior  support. 

It  is  possible,  however,  looking  to  a  still  diflerent  pecul- 
iarity, yet  to  be  named — a  peculiarity  very  profoundly 
qualifying  German  literature — to  find  an  alternative  explan- 
ation, one  more  honorable  to  the  national  intellect,  for  the 
extraordinary  tendency  characteristic  of  German  authors  to 
attach  themselves  to  one  another  in  groups,  and  to  addict 
themselves  to  foreign  literary  leaders.  The  quest,  however, 
of  this  alternative  explanation  carries  us  over  from  a  con- 
sideration of  the  exterior,  to  a  consideration  of  the  interior, 
characteristics  of  German  literature.  Let  us  then  take, 
finally,  some  account  of  those  fundamental  traits  which 
make  up  what  we  may  call  the  national  literary  idiosyncrasy 
of  Germans. 

One  of  the  most  distinctive  and  most  admirable  gifts  be- 
longing to  the  national  genius  of  Germany  is  its  unrivaled 
catholic  capacity  to  recognize  and  appreciate  intellectual  merit 
abroad  as  well  as  at  home;  in  fact,  indifferently,  wluM-ever 
roiiiid,  no  matter  in  what  age  or  what  race  of  mankind. 
(Jerman  literary  admiration  is  \\w  least  jealously  pali'iotic, 
the  most   opcn-lieartedly  hospitable,  the  most  cosmojiolitan, 


18  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

in  the  world.  Beyond  all  other  men,  Germans  believe  in 
intellectual  free-trade.  With  them  there  is  no  restriction  to 
the  commerce  of  ideas.  Breadth,  generosity,  welcome,  is 
accordingly  a  legend  covering  the  whole  face  of  German 
literature. 

Nearly  allied  to  this  embracing  catholicity  of  literary 
spirit,  on  the  part  of  the  Germans,  is  a  trait,  to  be  addition- 
ally reckoned,  of  their  intellectual  character,  namely,  their 
passion  for  philosophy.  This  passion  is  with  Germans  a  uni- 
versally penetrating  literary  influence.  It  makes  them  wish 
to  be  deep,  to  go  to  the  bottom  of  things;  it  makes  them 
wish  to  be  broad,  to  work  with  a  radius  long  enough  to 
sweep  their  circumference  around  every  thing  knowable — 
and  unknowable,  too,  for  that  matter.  Tlie  Germans  are 
often  credited  with  having  been  the  first  to  ground  literary 
criticism  in  principles  of  philosophy.  The  "  philosoi^hy  of 
history  "  is,  if  we  mistake  not,  a  German  phrase,  whether  or 
not,  also,  a  German  idea. 

Once  more.  Profound  thinking  and  broad  thinking  imply 
free  thinking.  Freedom  of  thought,  accordingly — paradox- 
ical though  it  be  to  make  the  assertion — is  as  salient  a  thing 
in  German  literature  as  is  imitativeness  of  literary  form. 
Freedom — in  fact,  intrepidity — in  thinking,  intrepidity  car- 
ried not  seldom  to  the  verge  of  foolhardy,  eccentric  caprice, 
is  a  characteristic  of  the  German  mind.  We  shall  not  exceed 
the  truth  to  say  that  Germany,  in  the  realm  of  ideas,  leads 
the  van  of  the  world ;  leads,  but,  alas,  too  often  misleads. 
It  was,  we  suppose,  in  part  for  the  purpose  of  expressing 
this  leadership  of  his  country  in  thought,  that  Richter  once, 
with  a  humor  which  probably  had  for  its  author  a  tinge  of 
patriotic  pathos  in  it  (it  was  the  time  of  nadir,  or  near  it,  in 
the  national  humiliation  of  Germany),  remarked,  "  Provi- 
dence has  assigned  to  France  the  empire  of  the  earth,  to  En- 
gland the  empire  of  the  ocean,  and  to  Gei-many  the  empire 
of— the  air  !  " 

The  present  writer  lately,  in  quoting  this  remark  of  Jean 
Paul's,   was    surprised    and    confounded    by    a   straightfoi-- 


German  Literature.  19 


ward  hearer  with  tlie  challenge,  proposed  in  perfect  good 
faith,  to  explain  exactly  what  the  remark  meant.  Then,  for 
the  first  time,  he  was  bronght  distinctly  to  perceive  that  the 
oft-quoted  saying  of  Richter,  which  he  had  supposed  himself 
to  understand  well  enough  to  enjoy  it  keenly  for  its  witty 
expressiveness,  was,  in  truth,  less  clear  than  it  seemed.  This 
leads  us  naturally  to  name  an  additional  trait  of  German  lit- 
erature— its  lack  of  clearness,  detiniteness,  solidity,  point. 
The  Germans  think  deeply,  they  think  boldly,  but  they  do 
not  think  clearly.  Perhaps  if  they  thought  more  clearly  they 
would  think  less  boldly.  Perhaps,  too,  if  they  tasked  tliem- 
selves  to  think  more  clearly  they  would  less  seem  to  be  think- 
ing deeply.  This  vagueness,  this  insubstantialness,  this  dis- 
appointing cloudiness,  in  German  thought,  may  have  been  a 
part  of  what  was  consciously  meant — it  is  certainly  a  part  of 
what  we  well  ma^  understand  as  conveyed — in  Richter's 
remark. 

Unsophisticated  sentimentalism,  disposition  to  wear  the 
heart  on  the  sleeve,  to  have  no  personal  secrets  whatever 
from  readers — this  is  a  further  singularity  observable  in  Ger- 
man literature.  What  we  mean  goes  beyond  that  certain 
degree  of  simplicity,  of  unreserve,  of  confidingness,  on  the 
part  of  writers,  with  which,  though  some  might  be  surprised, 
most  would  be  pleased.  German  outspokenness  in  literature 
is  often,  to  English  or  American  taste,  something  excessive, 
something  almost  egregious.  It  resembles  what  in  society 
we  should  call  lack  of  requisite  reticence,  of  decorous  self- 
control. 

The  sentiment  of  delight  in  the  contemplation  of  nature  is 
a  sufficiently  striking  thing  in  German  literature  to  deserve 
separate  note.  This  sentiment,  in  its  later  exhibition,  may 
be  a  derivation  from  abroad — from  Rousseau,  fi-om  Spinoza, 
for  example.  But  Luther,  too,  loved  nature,  and  there  are 
some  ex(juisite  bits  of  idyllic  description  of  natural  beauty 
interspersed  through  his  Icflers.  At  any  rate,  however  in- 
spired, whether  imported  or  indigenous,  the  passion  lias  be- 
come a  distinef ivc  (icrnian  Jifcrai-y  trait. 


20  Classic  German  Voitrse  in  English. 

Of  near  kindred  with  tlie  two  traits  last  named  is,  finally, 
a  certain  religiosity  giving  its  tinge  to  German  literature. 
Your  German  writer  may  be  an  infidel,  but  he  will  not  there- 
fore cease  to  have  his  religiosity.  He  may  be  a  libertine  in 
practice,  but  his  religiosity  M'ill  still  be  dear  to  him.  Religi- 
osity never  gave  up  harboring  in  Heine's  heart,  cheek  by  jole 
with  mockei-y,  with  ribaldry,  with  blasphemy.  The  religios- 
ity of  which  we  now  speak,  is  not  religion.  It  is  rather  sim- 
ply the  irrepressible,  though  half-perverted,  witness  borne  in 
literature  by  the  German  temperament  to  its  own  ineradicable 
instinct  for  religion.  Of  religion  itself,  however,  the  authen- 
tic thing,  beautiful  and  sw'eet,  there  is  also,  in  German  liter- 
ature, no  lack.  We  have,  in  saying  this,  to  suppose  a  broad 
distinction  made  in  thought  between  religion  and  orthodoxy^ 
as  orthodoxy  is  commonly  conceived.  A  German  strictly 
orthodox  in  religion  may,  indeed,  exist;  but  such  a  one,  we 
judge,  has  never  yet  made  himself  known  to  the  world  in 
literature. 

We  have  said  "finally,"  and  we  accordingly  herewith 
bring  our  characterization  of  German  literature  abruptly  to 
its  close,  A  word  or  two  only  of  related  information,  and 
we  go  without  more  delay  to  the  exhibition  of  those  select 
German  authors  Avho  will  furnish  the  subject  and  the  mate- 
rial of  the  present  volume. 

German  generosity  in  literary  appreciation — perhaps  we 
sliould  say  German  generosity  as  toward  English  authors  in 
particular — has  enjoyed  the  return  from  English-speakers  of 
an  overflowing  reward  in  kind.  Never,  on  behalf  of  any 
other  coeval  foreign  literature  than  the  German,  has  there 
been  exercised  among  us  a  championship  so  importunate  and 
so  influential,  Coleridge  and  Carlyle,  by  eminence,  in  En- 
gland; in  America,  Felton,  Ripley,  Brooks,  Hedge,  and,  in- 
deed, in  one  way  or  another,  nearly  all  our  chief  liteiary 
powers,  have  conspired  to  commend  to  Englishmen  and 
Americans  the  study  of  German  literature,  and  have  accu- 
niulated  a  popular  apparatus  of  means  for  that  stu<ly  far 
beyond  what  exists  in  the  case  of  any  modern  literature  ex- 


German  Literature.  21 


cc'jit  llif  German.  The  deep-lying  diSerence  in  mental  genius 
between  the  j)urely  Teutonic  and  the  mixed  Anglo-Saxon 
race  interposes  a  barrier,  which  will,  perhaps,  never  be  sur- 
mounted, to  perfect  freedom  of  literary  interchange  tiowing 
back  and  forth  from  the  one  to  the  other.  We  may,  how- 
ever, safely  wish  well  to  every  effort  made  on  either  side  to 
promote  mutual  literary  acquaintance. 

For  the  benefit  of  tl.ose  among  our  own  readers  who  may 
desire  to  prosecute  their  explorations'  of  German  literature 
farther  than,  Avith  the  single  aid  of  this  volume,  they  can  do, 
we  mention  now  a  few  accessible  books  in  English  which 
they  will  find  variously  serviceable  to  their  purpose. 

Among  living  American  teachers  of  the  German  language 
and  literature,  the  place  of  honor  belongs,  we  suppose,  by- 
right  of  seniority,  to  the  veteran  Dr.  F.  H.  Hedge,  whose 
two  books,  Prose  Writers  of  Germany,  an  ample  repertory 
of  translation  issued  many  years  ago,  and  Hours  icith  Ger- 
man Classics,  recently  published,  a  collection  of  university 
lectures  on  German  literature,  have  gained  wide  acceptance 
witli  the  public.  In  the  older  and  larger  book,  translation 
(limited  to  originals  in  prose)  is  the  principal  object,  bio- 
gra]»liical  and  critical  comment  being  secondary.  In  the 
smaller,  recent  volume,  that  relation  is  reversed.  Even  this 
snuillcr  volume  of  the  two  much  exceeds  the  present  book 
in  size. 

Professor  James  K.  Ilosmer's  Short  Histort/  of  German 
Literature  is  not,  what  its  title  might  seem  to  import,  a 
complete,  though  compendious,  sketch  of  German  literary  his- 
tory. It  is  rather  a  series  of  essays  or  lectures  on  selected 
topics  in  German  literature,  designed  by  the  author  to  be  so 
treated  as  virtually  to  cover  the  whole  field  indicated  in  the 
title  to  his  book.  The  book  is  by  no  means  a  primer  in  size. 
It  contains  more  than  six  hundicd  fairly  large  ])ages.  It  is 
fresh  and  vigorous  in  style,  and  its  tone  is,  on  the  whole,  ])ure 
and  bracing.  It  l)reathes  un wasted  youthful  enthusiasm  aiul 
joy  in  its  subject.  There  ^rc  in  it  frequent  translations  from 
(Jerman  interspersed. 


22  Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 

A  formal  history  of  German  literature  lias  lately  been 
translated,  under  the  best  auspices,  from  German,  which  may 
be  mentioned  as  constituting  a  popular  manual  for  general  pur- 
poses probably  not  inferior  to  any  now  existing  in  English  on 
its  subject.  This  is  the  work  of  W.  Scherer,  commended  in 
its  English  form  to  the  public  by  the  name  of  Max  Miiller  on 
its  title-page  as  editor.  Scherer  is  a  well-informed,  judicious 
historian  and  critic,  having  at  command  a  more  than  ordina- 
rily clear  and  unembarrassed  style — for  a  German  His 
book  is  not  free  from  errors,  and  his  plan  of  treatment  seems 
to  us  faulty,  involving  as  it  does,  on  the  historian's  part,  re- 
jjeated  recurrences  here  and  there  throughout  the  volume  to 
a  given  name,  and  thus  obliging  the  student,  with  much  con- 
fusing use  of  his  index,  to  piece  out  as  best  he  can  for  liini- 
sclf  that  whole  view  of  each  particular  author  which  his 
manual  will  rarely  be  found  in  any  one  place  to  sup]>ly. 
German-like,  Scherer  begins  remotely,  and  stores  his  first 
volume  with  a  mass  of  uninteresting  information  painstak- 
ingly gathered,  such  as  it  is  a  great  satisfaction  to  liave 
within  reach — for  future  reference. 

The  special  difference  to  characterize  the  volume  herewith 
offered  to  the  public— apart  from  its  less  comparative  size, 
a  very  important  feature  of  contrast — is,  first,  that  while,  on 
the  one  hand,  it  will  not  be  either  merely  or  chiefly  historical 
and  critical,  it  will,  on  the  other  hand,  be  both  historical  and 
critical  incidentally;  and,  second,  that  while,  on  the  one  hand, 
it  will  not  present  long  translated  extracts  in  bare  unbroken 
bulk,  it  will,  on  the  other  hand,  present  considerable  extracts, 
interrupted,  connected,  elucidated,  and  appreciated,  by  means 
of  quasi-editorial  comment  in  explanation  and  appraisal.  In 
other  words,  taking  translated  German  text,  select  and  rep- 
resentative, for  the  basis,  the  backbone,  of  the  book,  we  shall 
seek  so  to  edit  that  text  as  to  invest  it  with  flesh,  its  own 
flesh,  to  inspire  it  with  breath,  its  own  breath,  to  give  it  a 
heart,  its  ow^n  heart;  in  short,  to  make  it  live,  and  with  its 
own  life,  to  our  readers.  If  we  succeed  in  our  efforts  our 
readers  will  here  have  under  their  eye,  neither,  on  the  one 


German  Literature.  23 


hand,  simply  so  niucli  translated  German  literature,  to  under- 
stand, as  best  they  may,  for  themselves,  and  to  form  their 
own  unguided  judgment  upon,  nor,  on  the  other  hand,  sim- 
ply so  much  unexemplified  critical  expression  to  take  on  pure 
trust  from  the  critic,  without  fully  apprehending,  and,  of 
course,  without  verifying.  The  idea  of  this  book  is,  there- 
fore, not  quite  like  that  of  any  other  book  known  to  the 
present  writer.  The  execution  is  such  as  his  best  conscien- 
tious endeavors  could  make  it. 


24  (J/(fssic  Ger))u(n  Course  in  Kngllsh. 


II. 

LUTHER. 

1483-1546. 

A  WORLD-HISTORICAL  porsoiiage,  cnij)hatically  and  by  emi- 
nence, such,  is  Luther.  The  adjective  we  thus  apply — a 
compound  adjective  so  much  more  German  than  Englisli  in 
genius — seems  made  for  our  purpose,  to  express  densely  at 
the  same  time  this  man's  personality,  liis  influence,  and  his 
fame.  For  no  other  man  pei'haps  ever  lived  who,  simply  by 
what  he  was,  stamped  himself  so  broadly,  so  deeply,  and  so 
indelibly  as  did  Lutlier  upon  the  universal  imagination  of  the 
human  race;  no  other  man  Avho,  by  his  own  single  force, 
did  so  much  to  turn  into  a  new  channel  the  main  current  of 
human  history  ;  no  other  who  so  imperiously  usurped,  at 
once  and  for  ever,  his  place  in  the  memory  of  all  human 
kind. 

Such  was  Luther,  the  man.  We  have  here,  however,  to 
deal  with  Luther,  not  in  these  larger  aspects  of  his  genius  and 
his  achievement,  but  rather  as  a  German  simply;  and,  even 
more  narrowly  still,  as  a  German  producer  of  German  litera- 
ture. (No  inconsiderable  part  of  Luther's  immensely  volu- 
minous literary  production  was  written,  not  in  German,  but 
in  Latin.)  Luther,  as  we  have  already  remarked,  stands 
founder,  at  the  very  beginning,  of  proper  German  literary 
history.  Fecund  and  manifold  man  that  he  was,  he  hore 
fruit  for  literature  hardly  less  remarkable  than  was  the  fruit 
which  he  bore  for  religion  and  for  politics.  German  litera- 
ture, in  the  full  catholic  sense  of  that  expression,  may  be 
said  to  date  its  commencement  from  the  moment  at  which 
Luther's  noble  translation  of  the  Bible  into  his  own  mother- 
tongue  Avas  first  given  to  Germany.  That  monumental  work 
it  was  which  fixed  for  Germans  the  form  of  their  literarj^ 
language — in  truth,  Avhich  made  it  possible  for  a  German 
literature,  strictly  and  comprehensively  so  described,  to  be. 


Luthcv.  25 

Ik'fore  Lutlier,  the  German  language  seemed  hopelessly  dis- 
Iraeted  into  dialeets.  As  an  organ  of  literary  expression,  it 
was  despised  even  by  the  Germans  themselves,  and  neglected. 

Luther's  works  in  authorship  are  as  multiform  as  they  are 
manifold.  They  consist  of  lectures,  of  sermons,  of  tracts, 
of  pam[»hlets  in  controvers}',  of  commentaries,  of  addresses, 
and,  unsurpassed  in  importance,  of  letters — letters  almost  as 
numerous,  and  almost  as  various,  as  those  of  Voltaire. 
Above  every  thing  else,  however,  that  proceeded  fron\ 
Luther's  pen  towers  eminent  in  literary  value  and  signiti- 
cance  his  translation  into  German  of  the  Old  and  New  Tes- 
tament Scriptures.  Luther's  own  sign  manual,  legible  on  it 
all,  renders  it  fair  that  the  German  Bible  which,  where  he 
did  not  himself  make  it  he  at  least  effectively  got  made, 
should  be  called,  as  it  invariably  is  called,  by  his  name. 

This,  Luther's  capital  achievement  in  literature,  it  Avill,  of 
course,  be  impossible  for  us  at  a'l  to  illustrate  here.  Luther's 
Bible  is,  and  it  must  remain,  immortally  and  hopelessly,  as 
it  is  admirably,  German.  It  has,  for  three  centuries  and  a 
half,  been  to  the  German-speaking  peoples  all  that  the 
"  King  James's  "  translation,  for  two  centuries,  has  been  to 
the  peoples  that  speak  English. 

We  shall  not  need  here  to  sketch  Luther's  life.  The  world 
knows  it  by  heart.  It  will  not.  however,  be  amiss  to  recall 
to  our  readers  an  image,  at  once  lively  and  just,  of  the  man 
Martin  Luther,  by  giving  a  few  glimpses  of  him  as  self-dis- 
closed in  his  letters,  or  again  as  acting  the  true  "  autocrat  of 
the  breakfast-table,"  at  his  ease  and  freely,  among  his 
friends.  IIoav  the  great  reformer  seems  to  be  living  again, 
as  often  as  one  listens  to  that  racy  and  that  abundant  "  table- 
talk"  of  his — silent  noAV  so  long  from  the  lips  that  uttered 
it,  but  resounding  still,  and  forever  resounding,  in  the  books 
in  which  it  is  printed,  for  all  races  and  all  generations  of  his 
fellow-men  to  hear  !  Luther,  wath  shrewd  self-knowledge, 
contrasted  himself  against  his  friend  Melanchthon  by  saying: 
"  Philip  is  straiter  tied  than  I  am;  T  am  more  a  rhetorician 
and  a  talker."  To  talk  was  indeed  Luther's  genius  and  his 
2 


■JO  Classic  Geriimn  Course  in  KikjUsIi. 

delight.  He  talked  when  he  preached,  tulked  even  when  he 
wrote;  but  he  was  at  his  best — also,  it  must  be  owned,  at 
his  worst  —  when  he  ungirded  himself  to  talk  freely  and 
llowingly,  in  the  communications  of  social  or  of  convivial 
life. 

Such  most  characteristic  utterances  of  Luther  are  pre- 
served for  us,  perhaps  in  overlarge  supply.  The  great  man 
had  his  devoted  admirers,  who  valued,  not  merely  for  them- 
selves, but  for  the  whole  world  of  mankind,  every  syllable 
of  speech  that  issued  from  those  extremely  out-speaking 
oracidar  lips.  These  earlier  Boswells  of  a  far  mightier 
Jolinson  waited  on  their  master  as  often  as  they  got  the 
chance — and  they  got  the  chance  very  often — and  took  down 
his  words  in  writing  as  fast  as  he  spoke  them.  His  least 
considered  utterances  seem  not  to  have  diftered  from  those 
best  considered,  in  the  perilous  risk  they  ran  of  being  thus 
"  treasured  up  on  purpose  to  a  life  beyond  life."  Never  per- 
haps was  mortal  man  more  completely,  more  pitilessly,  ex- 
posed, to  be  known  to  the  world  for  what  he  really  was,  than 
was  Martin  Ijuther.  And  this  exposure  we  have,  in  not  its 
least  startling  degree  of  distinctness,  in  the  volumes  of  his 
table-talk.  No  conventional,  no  posturing  Luther  is  here — 
no  Luther  deceptively  draped  by  artful  admirers  for  deco- 
rous appearance  to  history.  It  is  an  actual,  not  an  ideal, 
man,  a  man,  too,  caught  as  it  were,  at  unawares — his  attitude 
sighted  under  many  different  angles — tliat  lives  before  us,  as 
we  listen,  and  speaks  these  breathing  words. 

The  most  conveniently  accessible  popular  form  in  which, 
until  lately,  Luther's  Table- Talk  could  be  read  in  English 
Avas  found  in  a  much  abridged  translation,  from  the  hand  of 
William  Hazlitt,  constituting  one  of  the  issues  of  the  well- 
known  Bohn  Library.  Professor  Henry  Morley  now  edits,  for 
the  very  useful  "  National  Library,"  in  course  of  publication 
by  Cassell  &  Company,  one  small  volume  of  selections, 
promising  a  second,  from  the  pioneer  English  version  of 
Captain  Henry  Bell. 

We  go  ourselves  to  the  original  text  lor  our  extracts  from 


Luther.  27 

tlie  Tahle-Talk.  Lutlu'i-  is  discussing  astrology,  in  wliicli 
pretended' science  he  did  not  believe,  although  his  friend 
Melanchthon  did.     Luther  says: 

I  have  often  talked  of  ihe  subject  [astrology]  vvitli  Philip  [Mclaiicli- 
thoii]  and  recounted  to  him  in  order  my  whole  life,  liow  one  thing  after 
another  lias  befallen,  and  how  it  has  fared  with  tno.  I  am  a  peasant's 
son;  my  father,  my  grandfather,  my  great-grandfather,  were  nothing  bnt 
peasants.  My  father  went  to  Mansfcld,  and  there  became  a  miner.  Such 
is  my  origin. 

Now  that  I  should  become  bachelor  of  arts,  master  of  arts,  monk,  and 
so  forth,  tliat  was  not  written  in  the  stars.  Did  I  not  get  myself  great 
shame  though,  hy  becoming  monk,  by  laying  aside  my  brown  cap  and 
wearing  a  different  one?  The  which,  truly,  ve.\ed  my  father  sore  and  of- 
fended him.  After  that  I  got  into  the  pope's  hair,  and  he,  forsooth,  back 
into  mine;  I  took  a  runaway  nun  to  wife,  and  had  children  by  her. 
Who  saw  all  that  in  the  stars  ?  Who  would  have  told  me  beforehand 
that  so  it  was  to  happen? 

With  the  foregoing  passage  cited  from  the  Tahle-Talk., 
Michelet  begins  his  lively  biography  of  Luther.  But  the 
passage  is  "  edited  "  by  the  Frenchman,  The  fact  of  its 
being  in  argument  against  astrology  that  Luther  was  sketch- 
ing his  own  career  does  not  at  all  come  out,  and  Michelet 
omits  altogether  the  particular  about  Lutlu-r's  becoming  a 
"  monk,"  apparently  because  to  include  it,  after  "  bachelor 
of  arts,  doctor  of  divinity,"  would  spoil  a  climax — a  climax, 
by  the  way,  quite  the  Frenchman's  own,  and  not  in  the  least 
belonging  to  Luther's  simple  statement.  Li  short,  Luther  is 
exhibited  by  Michelet  as  swaggering  about  himself,  instead 
of  merely  telling,  for  argument's  sake,  a  few  incidents  from 
his  own  experience.  \\\  addition,  the  clause,  "  Such  is  my 
origin,"  is  mistranslated  to  read,  "  There  I  was  born," 
Luther  being  thus  caused  to  say  that  he  was  born  at  Mans- 
feld,  whereas  Eislebeii  was  his  birthplace.  It  will  do  to  add 
a  good  pinch  of  salt,  in  allowance  for  rhetorical  variations, 
whenever  you  read  ]NL  Michelet's  citations  from  the  Tahle- 
Talk  of  Luther.  Care,  in  fact,  is  always  to  be  exercised  in 
using  Luther's  Tahle-Talk.  The  nature  of  things  forbids 
that  there  should  not,  from  one  cause  or  another,  be  many 


28  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

errors  in  the  existing  records  of  sucli  hurrying  reports, 
never,  we  suppose,  verified  by  Luther,  as  were  taken  of  his 
winged  words. 

When  Martin's  father,  John  Luther,  died,  the  son  wrote 
thus  to  liis  friend  Philip  Melanchthon  : 

It  is  just  and  ritiht  that  I,  liis  son,  should  mourn  such  a  father,  tlirough 
whom  tlie  Father  of  mercy  created  me,  and  through  whose  sweat  he 
nourished  me  and  made  me  wliat  I  am,  such  as  that  is.  But  how  I  re- 
joice that  ho  hved  hi  tiiese  times,  that  he  saw  tlie  hghtof  truth  !  Blessed 
bo  God  in  all  his  works  and  counsels  for  evermore  1 

The  filial  piety  of  the  foregoing,  as  well  as  its  piety  to- 
ward God,  is  touching  and  beautiful.  Melanchthon's  charac- 
ter and  spirit  seem  to  have  been  such  as  always  to  draw  out 
toward  him  the  sweetest  and  the  best  that  was  in  Luther. 
If  only  there  were  now  left  of  Luther  nothing  but  the  sweet- 
est and  the  best  that  was  in  him  !  What  bounds  then  would 
there  be  to  the  reverence  with  M'hich  Ave  should  study  and 
admire  !  Alas,  the  dross,  too,  of  him  has  come  down,  with 
sad  inextricableness  entangled  in  the  gold  ! 

The  stormy  soul  of  the  battle-welcoming  reformer  was 
sensitive  and  tractable  to  music ;  the  lion  listened,  and, 
listening,  became  the  lamb.  Luther  himself  played  the 
guitar  and  the  flute.  He  never  tired  of  sounding  the  praises 
of  music  as  being,  nigh  to  theology,  one  of  the  best  gifts 
of  God  to  men.  In  his  Tahle-Talk  many  pleasing  allusions 
to  the  subject  occur.     For  instance,  he  says  : 

It  [music]  drives  away  the  devil.  ...  It  makes  one  forget  anger,  lust, 
pride,  and  other  evil  passions. 

Again  (speaking  to  a  harper) : 

Friend,  strike  me  up  a  song,  as  David  struck  it  up.  I  hold  that  if 
David  wore  now  to  rise  from  tlie  dead,  he  would  be  very  much  surprised 
finding  to  what  a  pitch  people  have  got  in  the  matter  of  music.  Music 
never  readied  a  higher  point  than  now. 

Might  not  we,  adapting,  say,  in  our  turn,  of  Luther  what 
Luther  said  of  David  in  reference  to  music,  "  If  Luther  were 
now  to  I'ise  from  the  dead  '?" 


Luther.  29 


Once  more : 


How  happens  it  that  in  the  worldly  sphere  wo  linve  sn  many  fine 
poems  and  so  man\'  fine  songs,  while  in  tiio  spiritual  sphere  we  luive 
such  cold  dull  things  ? 

The  truculence,  the  coarseness,  the  grossness,  of  Lullier, 
in  his  championship  against  Rome,  and,  it  must  be  added, 
toward  all  who  ventured  to  diifer  with  himself,  were  as- 
tounding, were  staggering,  were  incredible.  But  they 
belonged  to  the  age  as  well  as  to  the  man  ;  and  we  are 
prepared  to  say  that  if,  without  miracle,  the  Reformation 
was  to  make  head  against  Rome,  they  were,  under  the  cir- 
cumstances of  Luther's  case,  a  necessity,  a  dire  necessity,  of 
his  cause.  Luther  had  to  reassure  himself,  had  to  inspirit 
his  followers,  had  to  overawe  his  enemies,  with  mien  and 
with  voice  as  defiant  as  the  tone  and  the  aspect  of  Rome 
were  threatening,  or,  humanly  speaking,  he  and  his  cause 
would  have  gone  instantly  under.  It  was  his  bravado, 
hardly  less  than  his  l)ravery,  that  saved  him  and  carried  the 
day.  But  Luther  had  a  tender  conscience,  and  his  conscience 
sometimes  misgave  him.  Will  not  God  judge  gently  a  sin- 
ful man  who  expresses  himself  as  did  Luther  in  the  following 
words  ?  But  first  read  and  contrast  Rousseau's  effrontery, 
in  the  preface  to  his  Gonfessioni< : 

"  Let  the  last  trumpet  sound  when  it  will,  I  will  come, 
with  this  book  [the  Confessions^  in  my  hand,  and  present 
myself  before  the  Sovereign  Judge.  I  will  boldly  proclaim, 
'Thus  have  I  acted,  thus  have  I  thought,  such  was  I,'  .  .  . 
and  then  let  a  single  one  tell  thee,  if  he  dare,  '■  I  was  better 
than  that  man.''  " 

Now  Luther  (we  venture,  in  this  citation,  as  in  one  oi' 
two  more  next  following,  to  depend,  without  verifying,  on 
Michelet,  who  here  gives  no  references): 

I  liave  learned  from  the  Holy  SeriiHure  liiat  it  is  a  thing  terrible  ami 
full  of  danger  to  raise  one's  voice  in  the  Chnrch  of  God,  to  speak  in  the 
midst  of  those  whom  we  shall  have  for  judges  when,  in  the  last  dfiy  I'f 
judgment,  we  shall  find  ourselves  in  the  presence  of  God,  ami  of  his 
angels — every  creature  IheiT-  hxikiii'/.  listening,  lieuiling  the  ear  tn  dui'li 


30  Classic  German.  Course  in  English. 

on  the  Divine  Word.  Certes,  when  I  tliink  on  it,  I  feel  tiiat  I  could 
heartily  wish  to  bury  all  in  silence,  and  pass  a  sponge  over  what  I  have 
written.  To  iuive  to  render  an  account  to  God  of  every  heedless  word — 
'lis  hard,  'tis  horrible  ! 

Heinricli  Heine  is  certainly  in  general  a  poor  authority 
to  quote  in  appreciation  of  any  thing  pure,  any  thing  lovely, 
any  thing  of  good  report  ;  but  the  following  words  of  his 
on  Luther  do  seera  to  have  in  them  the  charm  of  sincerity  as 
well  as  of  truth  : 

"  Renown,  eternal  renown  to  the  dear  man  to  whom  we 
owe  the  preservation  of  our  noblest  goods,  and  by  whose 
merits  we  live  to-day.  It  becomes  us  little  to  complain  of 
the  narrowness  of  his  views.  The  dwarf  who  stands  upon 
the  shoulders  of  a  giant  can  indeed  see  farther  than  the 
giant  himself,  especially  if  he  puts  on  spectacles ;  but  to  the 
higher  position  are  lacking  the  lofty  feeling  and  the  giant 
heart,  which  we  cannot  make  our  own.  It  becomes  us  still 
less  to  pass  a  harsh  judgment  upon  his  failings.  These  fail- 
ings have  benefited  us  more  than  the  virtues  of  a  thousand 
others.  The  subtlety  of  Erasmus,  the  gentleness  of  Melanch- 
thon,  would  never  have  carried  tis  so  far  as  did  often  the 
divine  brutality  of  Brother  Martin." 

Of  his  own  temper,  and  of  his  manngement  of  that  temper, 
in  ajiproaching  the  great  crisis  of  his  life,  his  appearance 
before  the  Diet  of  Worms,  Luther  finely  says: 

Tliough,  in  truth,  I  was  physically  fearful  and  trembling,  I  replied  to 
him,  [lo  one  incredulously  inquiring  of  Luther,  "Do  you  still  mean  to  go 
there?"]  "I  will  repair  thither,  (hough  I  siiould  find  there  as  many 
devils  as  there  are  tiles  on  the  house-tops." 

On  coming  first  in  sight  of  the  old  bell-towers  of  Worms — 
so  Audin,  a  French  Roman  Catholic  biographer  of  Luther, 
relates — Luther,  standing  up  in  the  carriage  in  which  he 
rode,  broke  out  singing  that  memorable  and  magnificent 
hymn  of  his,  well  called  by  Heine  the  "  Marseillaise  of  the 
Reformation,"  Ein  feste  Burg  ist  tmser  Gott ;  the  words 
and  the  music  he  had  meditated  and  composed  two  days 
before.     This  account  of  the  origin  of  the  hvmn  is  interest- 


Luther.  31 

ing,  but  it  is  not,  we  believe,  well  authenticated.  Here  is 
Thomas  Carlyle's  rendering  of  the  original — a  rendering  in 
which  not  only  is  the  sense  well  given,  but  the  ruggedness 
of  the  German  rhythms  well  preserved  : 

A  safe  .stronghold  our  God  is  still, 

A  trust}'  shield  and  weapon; 
He'll  help  us  clear  from  all  the  ill 

That  hath  us  now  o'ertakeii. 
The  ancient  prince  of  hell 
Ilatli  risen  with  purpose  fell ; 
Strons;  mail  of  craft  and  power 
lie  weareth  in  this  hour— 
<Jn  earth  is  not  his  fellow. 

With  foice  of  arms  wo  nothing  can, 

Full  soon  were  we  down-ridden  ; 
But  for  us  fights  the  proper  Man, 

Whom  God  himself  hath  hidden. 
Ask  ye,  Who  is  this  same? 
Christ  Jesus  is  his  name. 
The  Lord  Zebaoth's  Son,     ^ 
He  and  no  other  one 
Siiall  conquer  in  the  battle. 

And  were  this  world  all  devils  o'er, 

And  watcliing  to  devour  us. 
We  lay  it  not  to  heart  so  sore, 

We  know  they  can't  o'erpower  us. 
And  let  the  prince  of  ill 
Look  grim  as  e'er  he  will. 
He  harms  us  not  a  whit, 
For  why?     His  doom  is  writ — 
A  word  shall  quickly  slay  him. 

(rod's  word,  for  all  their  craft  and  forre, 

One  moment  will  not  linger, 
But,  spite  of  hell,  shall  have  its  course  : 

'Tis  writli'ii  by  his  finger. 
;\nd  tiiougli  they  take  our  life, 
Goods,  houses,  children,  wifi', 
Yet  is  their  profit  small, 
These  things  shall  vanish  .-ill, 
The  city  of  tJod  ri'maineth. 


32  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Dr.  Hedge  has  a  less  literal,  but  smoother,  version  of  this 
song,  beginning,  "A  mighty  fortress  is  our  God."  Dr. 
Hedge's  version  is  often  printed  in  our  collections  of 
hymns. 

In  a  ballad  of  Luther's,  the  "  Martyrs  of  Brussels "  (two 
young  men  who  suffered  at  the  stake  for  Christ,  in  15'2.3), 
occurs  the  following  stanza,  which  seems  to  be  the  original 
of  a  hymn  sometimes  attributed  to  Luther,  beginning, 
"  Flung  to  the  heedless  winds  ;  " 

Their  ashes  will  not  rest ;   world-wide 

They  flj  through  every  nation  ; 
No  cave  nor  gra,ve,  no  turn  nor  tide, 

Can  hide  th'  abomination. 
Tiie  voices  which  witli  cruel  hands 

Tliey  put  to  silence  living, 
Are  iieard,  though  dead,  throughoul  all  lands 

Their  testimony  giving, 

And  loud  Iiosannas  singing 

The  striking  tliought  about  those  restless  martyr  ashes 
finds  prose  expression  in  an  extract,  s<!on  to  be  given,  from 
one  of  Luther's  fiercest  controversial  pamphlets. 

Every  one  knows  how  Luther,  on  his  way  home  from 
Worms,  was  spirited  away  by  friends,  and  hidden  on  higb  in. 
Wartburg  Castle,  till  that  first  storm  were  overpast  of  threat 
and  danger  against  his  life.  Hence  he  dated  his  letters 
variously,  for  example  : 

"From  the  region  of  the  air;"  "From  the  region  of  tie  birds;" 
"From  amidst  the  birds  which  sing  swe-^ily  ou  the  brandies  of  the  tall 
trees  and  praise  God  night  and  day,  with  all  their  might;  "  "  From  the 
mountain;  "  "  From  the  Isle  of  Patmos." 

Poor  caged  man,  how  he  chafed  and  fretted  against  the 
bars  that  confined,  while  they  preserved,  him  !  He  suffered 
horribly  from  dyspepsia  during  those  days.  To  Melanehthon 
he  wrote  desperately,  as  follows  : 

You  greatly  err  in  altril)uting  to  me  so  much,  as  if  I  were  so  careful  for 
the  cause  of  God.  It  shames  and  pains  me,  this  idea  of  yours  so  favor- 
able about  me,  wiiile  I,  quite  insensible  and  liard,  sit  here  in  idleness,  and 
for  the  Church  of  (^lod,  alas,   pray  little,  sigh  not  all,  nay,  through   the 


Luther.  33 

tierce  flames  of  my  untamed  flesh,  feel  set  on  fire.  In  short,  I,  wlio 
should  be  fervent  in  the  sph'it,  am  fervent  in  the  flesli,  grossuess,  idleness, 
sloth,  lethargy,  and  do  not  know  but  God  turns  away  from  me,  because 
you  do  not  pray  for  me.  ...  It  is  now  eight  days  since  I  have  written 
any  tiling,  or  prayed,  or  studied — vexed,  partly,  by  the  temptations  of  the 
flesh,  partly  through  otlier  trouble. 

We  are  not  to  take  too  literally  Luther's  witness  against 
himself.  The  pen  of  the  man  thus  self-accused  of  sloth 
was  in  reality  raining  down,  from  his  home  in  the  clouds, 
all  sorts  of  writings  on  Germany, 

Luther's  captivity  at  Wartburg  Castle  in  time  relaxed 
enough  to  permit  him  to  go  out  hunting,  for  exercise  and 
recreation.  Very  characteristically,  and  withal  in  a  manner 
to  win  one  toward  the  womanly  soul  that  lay  hid  within  that 
manly  breast,  he  writes  of  this  experience  as  follows: 

I  have  been  out  sporting  two  whole  days.  I  have  long  had  a  desire  to 
appreciate  for  myself  this  princely  pleasure,  this  -yT^vx^Tcixpov  [bitter- 
sweet] ;  I  caught  two  hares  and  two  poor  little  partridges.  'Tis  a  fine 
occupation  for  any  one  who  has  got  nothing  else  to  do.  However,  I  did 
not  entirely  waste  my  time,  for  I  theologized  amid  the  nets  and  the  dogs, 
and  I  found  a  mystery  of  grief  and  pain  in  the  very  heart  of  all  the  joy- 
ous tumult  around  me.  Is  not  this  hunting  the  very  image  of  the  devil 
goinn-  about  seeking  what  poor  beasts  he  may  devour  by  tlie  aid  of  his  nets, 
his  traps,  and  his  trained  dogs — that  is  to  say,  of  his  bishops  and  his  the- 
logians  ?  There  was  an  incident  wliich  made  tlie  mystery  and  the  image 
still  more  manifest.  I  had  saved  alive  a  poor  little  hare  I  picked  up,  all 
trembling  from  its  pursuers;  after  keeping  it  in  ray  sleeve  some  time,  I 
set  it  down,  and  the  creature  was  running  off  to  secure  its  liberty,  when 
the  dogs,  getting  scent  of  it,  ran  up  and  first  broke  its  leg  and  then  piti- 
lessly killed  it.  The  dogs  were  the  pope  and  Satan,  destroying  tlie  souls 
which  I  seek  to  save  as  I  souglit  to  save  the  poor  little  hare.  I  have  had 
enougli  of  such  hunting  as  this;  the  hunting  I  shall  keep  to  is  tiiat 
wherein  I  desire  to  pierce,  with  sharp  darts  and  javelins,  wolves,  bears, 
foxes,  and  the  wiiole  iniquitous  troop  of  Roman  beasts  that  afflict  the 
world.  Ah,  vile  courtiers  of  Rome,  eaters  of  poor  hares  and  partridges, 
and  eaters  of  us  too,  you  will  find  in  the  other  world  that  you  yourselves 
have  become  beasts  whom  Christ,  the  great  hunter  of  all,  will  cage  up! 
While  you  tliink  you  are  hunters,  'tis  j'ou  who  are  hunted! 

Luther's  vivid  sense  of  a  personal  devil  always  at  work 
against  God,  and  therefore  notably  against  himself  as  signal 
2* 


34  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

champion  for  God,  was  an  incessant  exasperation  to  his  eagerly 
combative  spirit.  He  lived  in  one  life-long,  unintermittent 
duel  with  the  devil.  Speaking  of  some  excesses  committed 
during  his  absence  by  his  own  adherents  at  Wittenberg,  he 
says: 

I  can  imagine  Satan  grinning  and  saying  to  himself,  "Now  I  shall  have 
depressed  Luther's  courage  and  conquered  his  so  unbending  mind.  This 
time  he  will  not  get  the  better  of  me." 

Luther  took  the  lisk  of  descending  unpermitted  from  his 
aerie  in  Wartburg  Castle,  and  going  back  to  Wittenberg 
to  right  things  there.  He  succeeded  to  his  mind.  Called 
by  the  Elector  of  Saxony  to  account  for  his  temerity,  he, 
with  stimulating  freedom,  told  that  great  prince: 

My  conscience  will  permit  me  to  make  no  longer  delay,  and  rather  than 
act  against  that,  I  would  incur  the  anger  of  your  electoral  grace  and  of 
tlie  wliole  world.  The  Wittenbergers  are  my  sheep,  whom  God  lias 
intrusted  to  my  care ;  they  are  my  children  in  the  Lord.  For  them  I  am 
ready  to  suffer  martyrdom.  T  go,  therefore,  to  accomplisli,  by  God's 
grace,  that  which  Christ  demands  of  ihem  who  own  him. 

In  the  preceding  brief  citations  from  Luther's  letters,  we 
have  thought  that  we  ran  little  risk  in  following  Michelet 
translated  by  Hazlitt  without  strict  verification.  Bluff 
King  Henry  VHL,  of  England,  who  had  taken  it  into  his 
royal  head  to  stand  forth  as  defender  of  the  Roman  Catholic 
faith,  in  a  book  written  by  him  against  Luther,  got  more 
than  he  bargained  for,  in  reply,  from  the  intrepid  reformer. 
We  must  give  a  few  sjiecimens  of  the  astounding  "  great 
plainness  of  speech "  with  which  the  peasant  treated  the 
prince.     Luther: 

Not  to  me  but  to  himself  let  King  Henry  charge  it,  if  he  shall  experi- 
ence somewhat  hard  and  rough  treatment  at  my  hands.  ...  If  he  mere- 
ly erred  in  a  human  way  indulgence  should  be  accorded  to  him.  But 
when  witli  malice  aforethought  that  rottenness  and  worm  concocts  lies 
against  the  majesty  of  my  King  in  heaven,  it  is  right  for  me  on  behalf  of 
my  King  to  besprinkle  his  Anglican  majesty  with  his  own  mire  and 
ordure,  and  to  trample  under  foot  the  crown  that  blasphemes  against 
Christ 

Let  tliese  swine  come  on  and  burn  me  if  they  dare.     Here  I  am,  and  I 


Luther.  35 

will  wait  for  them ;  and  my  ashes  alone  having  been  after  my  deatli  cast 
into  a  thousand  seas,  I  will  persecute  and  harass  this  abominable  crowd. 
As  long  as  I  live,  I  will  be  the  enemy  of  the  papacy ;  burned,  I  will  be 
twice  an  enemy.  Do  what  you  can,  Thomist  [adjective  noting  a  follower 
of  Thomas  Aquinas]  swine,  you  shall  have  Luther  as  a  bear  in  your  way, 
and  as  a  lioness  in  your  path.  He  will  confront  you  on  all  sides,  and 
will  let  you  have  no  peace  till  he  shall  have  destroyed  your  iron  necks 
and  brazen  brows  either  unto  salvation  or  unto  perdition. 

The  indescribably  telling  prose  in  which  Luther  writes, 
with  its  homeliness,  its  idiomaticity,  its  nervousness,  its  di- 
rectness, its  pith,  its  point,  its  bite,  sufters  cruelly  in  any 
possible  English  translation.  The  immediately  foregoing 
extracts  were  furnished  to  the  present  writer  in  the  English 
form  in  which  they  here  appear,  by  a  distinguished  professor 
of  ecclesiastical  history,  whom  by  permission  we  name;  the 
Rev.  A.  H.  Newman,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  of  Toronto  Baptist  Col- 
lege. His  scholarship  may  be  trusted  to  have  represented 
the  original  truly.  Very  coarse  writing  these  paragraphs 
undoubtedly  are,  and  specimens  still  coarser  might  easily  be 
adduced.  But  coarseness  it  always  is,  never  uncleanness,  on 
the  part  of  Luther.  He  wavered,  too,  sometimes  in  his  con- 
duct, where  to  us  it  seems  clear  that  he  should  have  stood 
firm.  For  example,  he  paltered  once  with  a  truculent  prince 
to  let  him  practice  concubinage.  Shame  and  pity  indeed; 
but  we  should  judge  Luther  unjustly  to  charge  him  with  a 
prurient  mind.  That  notorious  couplet,  often  attributed  to 
Luther  as  author,  does  not  represent  the  spirit  of  the  man. 
And  there  is  not,  as  after  careful  investigation  we  fully  be- 
lieve, the  shadow  of  evidence  that  Luther  ever  either  wrote 
or  repeated  the  words  : 

"  Who  loves  not  wine,  woman,  and  song, 
Abides  a  fool  his  whole  life  long." 

There  is,  of  course,  a  sense  in  which,  without  taint  to  his 
pure  name,  such  an  expression  might,  as  Heine  says  this  did, 
have  "blossomed  out"  of  the  mouth  of  Luther.  But,  we 
repeat,  there  is  not  a  shadow  of  evidence  adduciblc  to  justify 
Heine's   assertion,   quoted,  as    if   accepted,  by    Viv.    Hedge. 


36  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Professor  M.  Giinther,  of  Concordia  College,  in  a  note  to  the 
present  writer,  sets  forth  the  facts  of  the  case  succinctly  as 
follows:  "It  [the  couplet]  is  traced  back  to  the  year  1777, 
when  the  German  poet  Johann  Heinrich  Voss  published  in 
Musen  Ahnanach  a  poem  containing  the  couplet  as  a  saying 
of  Luther.  On  account  of  this  forgery,  the  Lutheran  minis- 
ters of  Hamburg  protested  against  his  being  appointed  pro- 
fessor of  the  gymnasium  of  that  city.  Voss  never  justified 
himself." 

Our  space  for  Luther  runs  rapidly  away,  and  we  go 
abruj)tly  now  to  other  illustrations,  different  in  kind,  of  the 
genius  of  the  man. 

Luther  wrote  a  kind  of  encyclical,  or  circular,  letter  to  the 
councilmen  of  all  the  cities  of  Germany,  urging  them  to 
found  and  maintain  Christian  schools.     He  says: 

.  .  .  Dear  Germans !  Buy  while  the  market  is  at  the  door.  Gather 
while  the  sun  shines  and  the  weather  is  good.  Use  God's  grace  and 
word  while  it  is  at  hand.  For  you  must  know  that  God's  grace  and 
word  is  a  traveling  shower,  which  does  not  again  come  where  it  once  has 
been.  It  was  once  with  the  Jews,  but  gone  is  gone ;  now  they  have 
nothing.  Paul  brought  it  into  Greece,  but  gone  is  gone;  now  they  have 
the  Turk.  Rome  aiid  Italy  have  also  had  it,  but  gone  is  gone;  they  have 
now  the  pope.  And  ye  Germans  must  not  think  that  you  will  have  it 
forever;  for  ingratitude  and  contempt  will  not  let  it  abide.  Therefore 
seize  and  hold  fast,  whoever  can 

Tea,  sayest  thou,  schools  there  should  and  must  be ;  but  of  what  use 
is  it  to  teach  the  Latin,  Greek,  and  Hebrew  tongues,  and  other  liberal 
branches  ?  Could  we  not  teach,  in  German,  the  Bible  and  God's  word, 
which  are  sufficient  for  salvation?  Reply:  Yes,  I  well  know,  alas!  that 
we  Germans  must  aye  be  and  abide  brutes  and  wild  beasts,  as  the  sur- 
rounding nations  call  us,  and  as  also  we  well  deserve.  But  I  wonder  we 
never  sa)' :  Of  what  use  are  silks,  wine,  spices,  and  other  foreign  articles, 
seeing  we  have  wine,  corn,  wool,  flax,  wood,  and  stones,  in  German  lands, 
not  only  an  abundance  for  sustenance,  but  also  a  choice  and  selection  for 
elegance  and  ornament?  The  arts  and  languages,  which  do  us  no  harm, 
nay,  which  are  a  greater  ornament,  benefit,  honor,  and  advantage,  both  for 
understanding  Holy  Writ  and  for  managing  civil  affairs,  we  are  disposed 
to  despise ;  and  foreign  wares,  which  are  neither  necessary  nor  useful  to 
us,  and  which,  moreover,  peel  us  to  the  very  bone,  these  we  are  not  will- 
ing to  forego.     Are  not  people  like  that  well  called  German  fools  and 


Luther.  37 

beasts  ?  .  .  .  And  be  this  understood,  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  keep 
the  Gospel  without  the  languages.  The  languages  are  the  sheath  in  which 
this  sword  of  the  Spirit  is  hid.  They  are  the  casket  in  which  this  jewel 
is  borne.  They  are  the  vessel  in  which  this  drink  is  contained.  They 
are  the  store-house  in  which  this  food  is  laid  by.  And,  as  the  Gospel  it- 
self shows,  they  are  the  baskets  in  which  these  loaves  and  fishes  and 
fragments  are  kept.  Yea,  if  we  should  so  err  as  to  let  the  languages  go 
(which  God  forbid  1)  we  shall  not  only  lose  the  Gospel,  but  it  will  come 
to  pass,  at  length,  that  we  shall  not  be  able  to  speak  or  write  correctly 
either  Latin  or  German 

Yes,  sayest  thou  ;  but  let  each  one  teach  and  train  his  own.  Reply : 
Yes,  we  know  very  well  what  kind  of  teaching  and  training  that  is.  .  .  . 
The  education  which  is  given  at  home,  without  such  sciiools  [as  I  recom- 
mend], attempts  to  make  us  wise  through  our  own  experience.  Before 
that  comes  to  pass  we  die  a  hundred  times,  and  have  acted  inconsiderately 
all  our  life  long ;  for  experience  requires  much  time 

How  much  time  and  trouble  are  bestowed  in  teaching  children  to  play 
at  cards,  to  sing,  and  to  dance!  Why  will  we  not  spend  as  much  time  iu 
teaching  them  to  read,  and  other  accomplishments,  while  they  are  young 
and  have  leisure  and  capacit}"^  and  disposition  for  them  ?  I  speak  for  my- 
self; if  I  had  children  and  were  able,  they  should  not  only  hear  me  lan- 
guages and  histories,  but  they  should  also  sing  and  learn  music  and  all 
mathematics.  For  what  is  all  this  but  mere  cliildren's  play,  in  which  the 
Greeks  anciently  trained  their  children,  whereby  they  afterward  became 
wonderfully  skillful  people,  capable  of  all  sorts  of  things?  Yea,  what 
grief  is  it  to  me  now  that  I  did  not  read  poets  and  histories  more,  and 
that,  also,  no  one  taught  them  to  me ! 

I  have  done  my  part.  I  would  gladly  have  counseled  and  helped  the 
German  lands.  And  albeit  some  may  contemn  me  in  this  thing,  and  give 
to  the  winds  my  faithful  advice  and  pretend  to  better  knowledge,  I  must 
even  endure  it.  I  well  know  that  others  might  have  done  better;  but 
seeing  they  are  silent,  I  have  done  as  well  as  I  could.  It  is  better,  be- 
sides, to  have  spoken,  however  unskillfully,  than  to  Iiave  remained  wholly 
silent  on  the  matter 

Herewith  I  commend  you  all  to  the  grace  of  God.  May  he  soften  and 
kindle  your  hearts  so  that  tiiey  sliall  earnestly  take  the  part  of  these 
poor,  pitiable,  forsaken  youth,  and,  through  divine  aid,  counsel  and  help 
them  to  a  happy  and  Christian  ordering  of  tlie  German  land  as  to  body 
and  soul  with  all  fullness  and  overflow,  to  the  praise  and  honor  of  God 
the  Father,  through  Jesus  Christ,  our  Saviour!     Amen. 

We  could  not  find  it  in  our  heart  not  to  let  discourse  so 
wise  and  so  eloquent,  on  a  subject  still  so  living,  flow  on  to 
.some  length. 


4(]2436 


38  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Now  let  us  learn,  from  a  letter  of  father  to  son,  how  Lu- 
ther, as  a  kind  of  Sunday-school  teacher  with  pen,  could 
himself  practice  the  art  of  education,  in  the  case  of  a  boy, 
and  that  boy  his  own  "  Johnny."  We  quote  Luther's  cele- 
brated lettei",  "  To  his  son  John."  In  its  pretty  parable  of 
heaven  will  be  found  the  whole  idea  of  Miss  Phelps's  Gates 
Ajar  anticipated : 

Grace  and  peace  in  Christ,  my  dear  little  son.  I  am  glad  to  see  that 
thou  learnest  well  and  prayest  diligently.  Do  so,  my  son,  and  coutinue. 
Wiien  I  come  home  I  will  bring  thee  a  fine  fairing. 

I  know  a  fair,  delightful  garden  wherein  many  cliildreu  run  about,  wear 
little  golden  coats,  and  gather  fine  apples  under  the  trees,  and  pears,  cher- 
ries, prunes,  and  plums.  They  sing,  spring,  and  are  gay.  They  have 
fine  little  horses,  too,  with  gold  bits  and  silver  saddles.  And  I  asked  the 
man  to  whom  the  garden  belongs,  whose  the  children  were?  And  he 
said,  "They  are  the  cliildren  that  love  to  pray  and  to  learn,  and  are  good." 
Then  I  said,  "  Dear  man,  I  have  a  son,  too,  his  name  is  Johnny  Luther; 
may  he  not  also  come  into  this  garden  and'eat  such  fine  apples  and  pears, 
and  ride  such  fine  little  horses  and  play  with  these  children?"  Then  the 
man  said,  '•  If  he  loves  to  pray  and  to  learn,  and  is  good,  he  shall  come  into 
this  garden,  and  Lippus  [Melanchthon's  son  Philip]  and  Jost  [Jonas's  son 
Jodocus],  too ;  and  when  they  all  come  togetlier  t\\ej  shall  have  fifes, 
drums,  lutes,  and  all  sorts  of  stringed  instruments,  and  they  shall  dance 
and  slioot  with  little  cross-bows." 

And  he  showed  me  a  fine  lawn  tliere  in  the  garden,  made  for  dancing. 
There  hung  fifes  of  pure  gold,  drums,  and  fine  silver  cross-bows.  But  it 
was  early,  and  tlie  children  had  not  yet  eaten;  so  I  could  not  wait  for 
tlie  dance,  and  I  said  to  tlie  man,  'Ah.  dear  sir,  I  will  immediately  go  and 
write  all  this  to  my  dear  little  son  Johnny,  that  he  may  pray  diligently, 
and  learn  well,  and  be  good,  so  that  he  also  may  come  to  tliis-  garden. 
But  he  has  an  Aunt  Lene  [Jolinny's  great-aunt,  Magdalen],  he  must  bring 
her  with  him."     Then  the  man  said,  "  So  it  shall  be ;  go  and  write  him  so." 

So,  dear  little  son  Johnny,  learn  and  pray  with  good  heart,  and  tell 
Lippus  and  Jost,  too,  that  they  must  learn  and  pray;  and  tlien  you  shall 
come  to  the  garden  together.  Herewith  I  commend  thee  to  Almighty 
God,  and  greet  Aunt  Lene,  and  give  her  a  kiss  for  my  sake. 

Thy  dear  father,  Martinus  Luther. 

Anno  15.30. 

We  reluctantly  forbear  our  hand  from  passages  that  tempt 
ns,  in  illustration  of  Luther's  love  for  teaching  the  doctrine 
of  the  ministration  of  anp-els.     One  short  extract  we  srive 


Luther.  39 

from  ;i  letter  of  bis  to  his  wife,  whom  lie  affectionately 
ehides  for  excess  of  the  care-taking  spirit  exercised  on  his 
own  behalf.  The  form  of  personal  address  in  a  letter  from 
Luther  to  his  wife  is  generally,  as  it  is  in  this  case,  some- 
thing out  of  the  usual : 

To  luy  dear  Housewife,  Katherin  Luthenn,  Doctoress,  Self-maityrcss, 
my  Gracious  Lady — for  her  hands  and  ftet. 

Grace  and  Peace  in  the  Lord!  Dear  Kate,  do  thou  read  John  and  ilie 
httle  catechism,  concerning  which  thou  once  saidst,  that  all  contained  in 
tliat  book  is  by  me.  For  thou  must  needs  care,  before  thy  God,  just  as 
if  he  were  not  Almighty,  and  could  not  create  ten  Doctor  Martins  if  the 
single  old  one  were  to  drown  in  the  Saale,  or  the  Oveuliole,  or  Wolf's 
Yogelheerd.  Leave  me  in  peace  with  thy  anxiety.  I  have  a  better 
guardian  than  thou  and  all  the  angels  are.  He  lies  in  the  crib,  and  hangs 
upon  the  Virgin's  teats,  but  sitteth,  nevertheless,  at  the  right  hand  of 
God,  the  Almighty  Father.     Therefore  be  in  peace.     Amen! 

We  are  most  courteously  permitted  to  make  free  use  of 
the  translations  by  Dr.  Hedge  appearing  in  that  distinguished 
(Tcrman  scholar's  Prose  Writers  of  Germany.  We  draw 
from  this  source  the  foregoing  extract,  and  the  one  to  follow. 

With  all  his  faults — which  Avere  mostly  the  faults  of  his 
country  and  age — the  lordliest  and  the  loveliest  of  the  Ger- 
mans was  Luther.  Let  him  now  be  fitly  last  imprinted  in 
image  on  our  minds,  standing  in  that  act  and  attitude  of  his, 
the  most  memorable,  or  at  least  the  most  impressively  char- 
acteristic of  his  life,  his  prayer  at  the  Diet  of  Worms  : 

Almighty,  eternal  God  I  What  a  strange  thing  is  this  world!  How 
doth  it  open  wide  the  moutiis  of  the  people!  How  small  and  poor  is  tlie 
confidence  of  men  toward  God  !  How  is  the  flesh  so  tender  and  wealv, 
and  the  devil  so  mighty  and  so  busy  through  his  apostles  and  the  wise 
of  this  world  I  How  soon  do  they  withdraw  the  hand,  and  wliirl  away 
and  run  the  common  path  and  the  broad  way  to  hell,  where  the  godless 
belong!  They  look  only  upon  that  which  is  splendid  and  powerful,  great 
and  mightj'^,  and  which  hath  consideration.  If  I  turn  my  eyes  thither 
also,  it  is  all  over  with  me;  the  bell  is  cast  and  the  judgment  is  pro- 
nounced. Ah,  God!  ah,  God!  0,  thou  my  God  I  Thou  my  God,  stand 
thou  by  me  against  the  reason  and  wisdom  of  all  the  world.  Do  thou  so ! 
Thou  nnist  do  it,  thou  alone.  Bcliold,  it  is  not  my  cause,  but  thine. 
For  my  own  person  I  liave  ncjthing  to  dn  iiere  with  these  great  lords  of 


40  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


tlie  world.  Gladlj'  would  I  loo  liave  good  quiet  daj's  and  be  uuperplexed. 
But  thine  is  the  cause,  Lord;  it  is  just  and  eternal.  Stand  thou  hy  me, 
thou  true,  eternal  God  !  I  confide  in  no  man.  It  is  to  no  purpose  and  in 
vain.  Every  thing  halteth  that  is  fleshly,  or  that  savoreth  of  flesh.  0 
God !  O  God !  Hearest  thou  not,  my  God  ?  Art  thou  dead  ?  No ! 
Thou  canst  not  die.  Thou  only  hidest  thyself.  Hast  thou  chosen  me  for 
tliis  end?  I  ask  thee.  But  I  know  for  a  surety  that  thou  hast  ciiosen 
me.  Ha  !  then  may  God  direct  it.  For  never  did  I  think,  in  all  my  life, 
to  be  opposed  to  such  great  lords  ;  neither  have  I  intended  it.  Ha ! 
God,  then  stand  by  me  in  the  name  of  Jesus  Christ,  who  shall  be  my  shel- 
ter and  my  shield,  yea,  ray  firm  tower,  througli  the  might  and  strengthen- 
ing of  thy  Holy  Spirit.  Lord !  where  stayest  thou  ?  Thou  my  God  I 
wliere  art  thou  ?  Come,  come  I  I  am  ready,  even  to  lay  down  my  life  for 
this  cause,  patient  as  a  little  lamb.  For  just  is  the  cause  and  thine.  So 
will  I  not  separate  myfelf  from  thee  forever.  Be  it  determined  in  thy 
name.  The  world  shall  not  be  able  to  force  me  against  my  conscience, 
though  it  were  full  of  devils.  And  though  my  body,  originally  the  work 
and  creature  of  thy  hands,  go  to  destruction  in  this  cause — yea,  though 
it  be  shattered  in  pieces — thy  word  and  tliy  spirit,  they  are  good  to  me 
still.  It  concerneth  only  the  body.  The  soul  is  thine,  and  belongeth  to 
thee,  and  shall  also  remain  with  thee,  forever.  Amen.  God  help  me  I 
Amen. 

Who  can  doubt  that  God  helped  him  ? 


III. 

KLOPSTOCK. 

1724-1803. 


Napoleon  once,  in  that  witty,  incisive,  imperial  phrase  of 
his,  said,  or  is  repoi'ted  to  have  said,  with  paradox,  concern- 
ing Dante,  "  His  fame  is  increasing,  and  it  will  increase ; 
for  he  is  no  longer  read." 

The  case  with  the  German  poet  Klopstock  is  partly  like 
and  partly  different.  There  is  no  present,  and  there  is  not 
likely  to  be  any  ftiture,  increase  of  his  fame,  presenting  a 
problem  to  be  solved.  Blit  if  there  were,  Napoleon's  easy 
solution  would  serve  ;  for  Klopstock  is  no  longer  read.  The 
solittion,  however,  would,  in  Klojjstock's  case,  serve  without 
paradox  ;  for  in  pure  soberness,  this  poet's  fame  could  not 


Klopstock.  41 

possibly  increase — on  the  rigorous  condition  tiiat  his  poetry 
continued  to  be  read. 

Such,  frankly  disclosed,  is  the  strict  truth  as  to  the  subject 
of  the  pi'esent  chapter.  And  still,  Klopstock  is  now,  and  he 
always  will  be,  a  clear  and  venerable  name  in  tl)e  history  of 
German  letters.  He  is  secure  of  being  permanently  remem- 
bered as  a  German  poet  who,  in  liis  life-time,  filled,  not  Ger- 
many alone,  but  Europe,  with  his  renown,  and  who  wrote  the 
first  ostensibly  great  epic — an  epic  remaining  yet  without  a 
fellow  of  its  own  rank — in  the  German  language. 

For  the  Messiah  of  Klopstock,  at  least  in  ambition — which 
already  is  much — as  likewise  in  theme,  in  purpose,  in  scope, 
and  in  conception,  is  a  great  epic.  The  execution  falls  short, 
nay,  painfully  short ;  but  not  short  so  far,  even  at  that,  as  in 
justice  wholly  lo  defeat  the  poem  of  its  fame.  As  the  idea 
of  the  Jlessiah  was  rather  bold  and  lofty  than  felicitous,  so 
the  realization  also  failed  rather  in  judgment  than  in  power. 

Thus  redoubtable  and  thus  unreadable — for  absolutely  un- 
readable, to  the  living  generation,  this  German  epic,  in  its 
immense  entirety,  is — the  Messiah  may  well  engage  the 
cuiiosity  of  every  liberally  inquiring  mind,  sufficiently,  at 
least,  to  make  the  question  a  perennially  interesting  one, 
What  is  the  true  character  of  the  poem  that  in  its  time  en- 
joyed such  fame  and  exerted  such  influence  ?  For  the  in- 
fluence, too,  of  the  Messiah  was  commensurate  with  its  fame. 
German  literary  history  has  run  a  different  course,  because 
Klopstock  wrote  the  Messiah. 

The  slight  notices  to  be  given  of  this  poet's  uneventful,  but 
honorable,  and  on  the  whole  placid  and  happy,  life  will,  we 
think,  be  more  likely  to  interest  readers,  if  postponed  for 
them  first  to  form  to  themselves  some  image  of  the  man 
directly  from  his  works.  Klopstock  wrote  in  prose  as  well 
as  in  verse  ;  but  his  writings  in  prose,  if  we  except  one  sacred 
tragedy  of  his,  the  ylclam,  and  an  historical  drama  in  three 
parts,  are  neither  entertaining  nor  importan).  His  writings 
in  verse  consisted  of  odes,  of  tragedies  (mostly  on  Scripture 
themes),  and  of  one  epic,  hi(^  tiiasterpiece,  the  Messiah.     Let 


42  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


us  begin  at  once  witli  surveying  this   chief  corner-stone  of 
his  fame. 

/      The  Messiah,  then,  as  befitted  its  title,  is  a  religious  poem. 
j/    Its  subject  is  the  redeeming  work  of  Jesus  the  Christ.     The 

j  time  covered  by  the  action  of  the  poem  is  short,  the  action 

i  commencing  a  few  days  only  before  the  crucifixion,  and 
closing  with  the  ascension  and  glorification,  of  Christ.  The 
substance  of  the  poem  consists  of  matter  invented  by  the 
poet.  This  mattei",  for  the  most  part,  relates  to  transactions 
imagined  by  Kloj^stock  to  pass  in  the  unseen  spiritual  world 
synchronously  with  the  events  narrated  by  the  evangelists  as 
occurring  in  the  earthly  sphere  of  things,  within  the  period 
of  time  embraced  between  the  beginning  and  the  ending  of 
the  poet's  plot.  The  invention  of  the  Messiah,  it  will  thus 
be  seen,  is  sufiiciently  profuse.  In  fact,  the  fecundity  of 
Klopstock's  imagination  is  prodigious.  No  student  of  the 
work  can  possibly  deny  to  the  author  of  the  Messiah  the 
possession,  "  in  overmeasure  forever,"  of  at  least  one  great  at- 
tribute of  genius — inexhaustible  faculty  to  invent.  Judgment, 
however,  to  keep  invention  under  guidance  and  in  check,  but, 
above  all,  supreme  constructive  capacity,  a  certain  oiiginal 
vivific  creative  power,  to  organize  the  teeming  products  of  in- 
vention into  one  comprehensive,  consistent,  harmonious,  living 
and  moving  whole — these  gifts  were  wanting  to  Klopstock. 

Of  siich  a   production  as  that   which  is  thus   described, 
obviously  it  would  not  be  easy  to  give  an  abstract  in  brief. 

,  A  very  large  proportion  of  the  expansile  bulk  of  the  Messiah 
consists  of  speeches  made  by  the  various  personages  of  the 
plot.  These  speeches  are  chiefly  either  soliloquies  or  mutual 
addresses  exchanged  in  conversation,  which  might  equally  well 
have  been  more  in  number  or  less,  longer  or  shorter,  than 
they  in  fact  are;  since,  as  a  general  rule,  they  are  simply 
expressions  of  thought  or  of  emotion  leading  to  no  issue  in 
conduct  on  the  part  of  the  actors.  Often,  indeed,  the  action 
might  better  have  spared  them  altogether.  As  the  case 
stands,  it  is  much  as  if,  in  a  Greek  tragedy,  the  drama 
proper    should  give    nine  tenths  of   its   time  to  the  chorus. 


Klopstock.  43 

The  Messiah,  in  fact,  is  less  an  epic  than  a  scarcely  coherent || 
succession  of  lyrics.  ^ 

Our  best  way  of  enabling  readers  to  form  for  themselves 
a  right  idea  of  a  poem  like  this  will  be,  simply  to  give  them 
some  fairly  representative  specimens  of  what  it  contains  ; 
since  what  it  contains,  rather  than  what  it  is,  constitutes  its 
just  title  to  fame.  Every^  body  will  like  to  see  how  the 
Messiah  begins.     Here  are  the  opening  lines  : 

Sing,  0  deatliless  soul,  of  apostate  man's  redemption, 

Which  the  Messias  ou  earth  in  man's  own  nature  accomphshed, 

And  through  wliich,  himself  (a  sufferer,  slain,  victorious), 

To  God's  favor  anew  the  race  of  Adam  exalted. 

For  thus  willed  the  Eternal — against  that  heavenly  Saviour 

Satan  arose  in  vain  :  in  vain  Judea  resisted 

Him,  the  beloved  Son — he  wrought  his  work  of  atonement. 

But,  0  work,  which  only  the  Great  All-merciful  knoweth — 
Darkling  here,  from  afar,  may  Poesy  dare  to  approach  thee? 
Hallow  her.  Sacred  Spirit,  whom  here  I  worship  in  silence  1 
Lead  her  to  me,  as  thine  imilatress,  breathing  of  rapture. 
Full  of  unperishing  strength,  in  veil -less  majesty  hither  ! 
Arm  her  witii  thine  own  fire,  0  thou,  who  awfully  searchest 
The  deep  things  of  God  ;  and  man,  albeit  of  the  dust  formed, 
Choosest  to  be  thy  temple,  thy  own  terrestrial  dwelling! 

Pure  be  this  heart!  so  dare  T,  though  with  tremulous  accents 
Mortal  and  weak,  to  celebrate  Him,  tiie  divine  Reconciler, 
Into  that  dread  career  with  pardoned  frailt}^  ent'ring. 
Fellow-men,  if  tiiat  ye  know  the  height  which  then  j'e  attained 
When  thus  a  world's  creator  became  its  atoner — 0,  listen. 
Listen  to  this  my  strain  ;  and  chief  ye  few  but  ennobled. 
Loved,  heart-cherished  friends  of  that  all-lovely  Redeemer, 
"W'ho  with  habitual  hope  await  his  coming  to  judgment. 
Listen,  and  sing  the  eternal  Son  through  a  bhssful  existence! 

Klopstock  was  not  fortunate  in  attracting  qualified  English 
translators.  We  have  accordingly  had  great  difficulty  in  se- 
curing suitable  versions  even  of  passages  from  the  Messiah. 
The  foregoing  extract  we  found  in  an  old  and  rare  English 
periodical  of  the  year  1821,  the  Congregational  Magazine^ 
now  nearly  inaccessible.  .  The  translator,  evidently  a  scholar, 
signs  himself  simply  with  the  (ireck  letter  Delta.     He  prcf- 


44  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

aces  his  work,  wliich  is  fragmentary,  with  the  statement 
that  he  had  spent  some  time  in  a  German  university,  hid 
thither  chiefly  by  his  desire  to  become  acquainted  with 
Klopstock's  poetry.  This  circumstance  may  be  taken  to  in- 
dicate in  what  estimation,  two  generations  ago,  our  poet  was 
hehl.  There  is  something  truly  pathetic  in  the  thought  ir- 
resistibly suggested  by  the  contrast,  existing  in  the  case, 
between  what  was  then  and  what  is  now — the  thought, 
namely,  of  the  uncertainty  of  human  fame.  The  translator, 
with  much  modest  misgiving,  ventures  the  innovation  of 
\  hexameters  in  English.     There  was  propriety  in  this.     For, 

'with     the    exception    of     f^Pvta^II^  Fnvmally    lyiMP   ^^^g^pfi^    i" 

rhymeless  irregular  metres,  occurring  toward  the  close,  the 
original  poem  is  in  dactylic  hexametei*  verse — a  poetic  form 
which  Klopstock,  if  not  the  first  among  Germans  himself  to 
adopt,  was  first,  by  truly  successful  example,  to  get  adopted 
by  his  countrymen.  This  difficult  metre  remained  somewhat 
rough  and  intractable  in  Klopstock's  hands;  it  waited  almost 
one  generation  for  Goethe's  master  plasticity  to  subdue  it 
perfectly  to  smoothness  and  grace.  BTit_the  mere  use  of  the 
hexameter  by  Klopstock  was  significant.  It  meant  the 
beginning  of  emancipation  for  German  literature  from  the 
bondage  of  foreign  literary  models.  Here,  at  least,  was  a 
genuinely  German  poem.  Before  Klopstock  raised  in  the 
Messiah  his  standard  of  revolt,  the  French  canons  of  literary 
art  were,  for  generations,  supreme  and  almost  undisputed  in 
Germany.  Klopstock  was  German  to  the  core.  True,  he 
was  powerfully  influenced  by  .English  models.  Bishop 
Taylor,  Young,  in  his  Night  T/ioughts,  Milton,  in  his  Para- 
dise Lost,  Ossian,  were  teachers  to  him.  Without  these 
foreign  sources  of  instruction  and  inspiration,  Klopstock 
would  not,  probably  he  could  not,  have  written  his  Ifessiah. 
The  Messiah,  in  fact,  is  a  virtually  self-confessed  parasite  of 
the  Paradise  Lost.  The  Paradise  Lost  is  assumed,  is  taken 
for  granted,  by  the  Messiah,  much  as  the  Bible  itself  is  as- 
sumed, is  taken  for  granted,  by  the  Paradise  Lost.  We  are 
about  to  exemplify  this  in  a  remarkable  instance.     Still,  in 


KlopstocJc.  45 . 

substance,  in  form,  and  in  spirit,  Klopstock  is  thoroughly 
German.  If  Milton,  if  Young,  become  his  sources  and  his 
standards,  if  toward  them  he  holds  himself  docile  and  de- 
pendent, for  all  that  they  do  not  succeed  in  anglicizing  him. 
He  remains  stoutly,  resistantly  German.  Nay,  he  germanizes 
them.  Coleridge's  saying,  often  taken  as  a  witticism  and  a 
sneer,  might  wisely  be  taken  as  a  merely  candid  and  just 
appreciation  of  Klopstock.  Some  one  called  Klopstock  "  a 
German  Milton."  "Yes,"  said  Coleridge,  "and  a  very 
German  Milton."     It  was  the  strict  truth  happily  expressed. 

Early  in  thefirstjcauto,  occurs  a  famous  passage  on  which  we  ^ 
have  felt  forced  to  try  ourselves  a  translating  hand.  It  fol- 
lows a  conversation  reported  by  the  poet,  between  the  Divine 
Father  and  the  Divine  Son,  on  the  subject  of  the  atonement, 
now  about  to  be  accomplished  in  the  crucifixion  of  Jesus. 
The  pervasive  effect  on  the  universe,  resulting  from  the  cov- 
enant for  human  redemption  entered  into  between  the  two 
Divine  Persons,  is  described.  Our  readers  will  not  need  to  be 
reminded,  in  parallel,  of  those  two  celebrated  places  of  Mil- 
ton, describing  the  ominous  sympathy  of  nature  shown  on 
occasion  of  the  fall  of  our  first  parents: 

Earth  felt  the  wound,  and  Nature  from  her  seat, 
Siglu'ng  through  all  her  works,  gave  sign  of  woe 
That  all  was  lost. 

Sky  lowered,  arid,  mutt'ring  thunder,  some  sad  drops 

Wept  at  completing  of  the  mortal  sin 

Original. 

Here  is  Klopstock's  modification  and  adaptation, — as  we 
have  been  able,  hugging  the  original  closely,  to  convert  the 
German  hexameters  into  lines  of  English  blank  verse: 

So  spake  he,  and  ceased  speaking.     "While  the_y  spake, 

The  two  Eternal  Ones,  tliere  went  through  all 

The  universe  a  shudder  full  of  awe. 

Souls  that  but  now  were  forming,  nor  to  think 

Had  yet  begun,  trembled  and  learned  to  feel. 

A  mighty  quaking  seized  the  seraph,  smote 

His  heart  in  him,  while  round  about  him  lay 

Waiting,  as  waits  the  cartli  the  coming  storm. 


46  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

The  silence-keeping  circle  of  his  world. 

Soft  transports  only  came  into  the  souls 

Of  Christians  yet  to  be,  and  sweet-absorbing  sense 

Of  everlasting  life.     But  impotent, 

And  only  of  despairing  capable 

Now,  impotent  to  think  blaspheming  thoughts, 

Rushed  ruining  from  their  thrones  in  the  abyss 

The  spirits  of  hell.     As  down  headlong  they  sank, 

On  each  there  rolled  a  rock,  rent  under  each 

The  deep  with  dreadful  rupture,  while  with  noise 

Of  thunder  bellowed  the  profoundest  hell. 

An  invention  of  Klopstock's  as  likely,  for  several  reasons, 
as  any  thing  in  the  Messiah,  to  interest  our  readers  is 
i  that  of  the  character  and  fortune  of  a  personage  named 
\  Abbadona.  It  is  a  characteristically  Klopstockian  invention; 
it  associates  itself  with  a  familiar  and  raag^nificent  imag-ina- 
tion  in  Milton's  Paradise  Lost  •  and  it  is,  in  its  own  right, 
intrinsically  wortliy  of  some  attention.  Abbadona  is  an  evil 
\  spirit — not  wholly  evil,  for  he  is  repentant.  He  was,  accord- 
ing to  Klopstock,  originally  a  kind  of  twin  to  the  Abdiel  of 
Milton,  having  been  created  at  the  self-same  moment  with 
that  noble,  upright  spirit,  the  loftiest  severe  conception  of 
moral  character  in  the  Paradise  Lost,  nay,  the  loftiest,  perhaps, 
in  the  whole  realm  of  imaginative  poetry,  Abbadona,  in  the 
crisis  of  the  great  angelic  apostasy,  was  for  a  moment  minded 
to  side  with  Abdiel  in  standing  out  against  Satan,  But  he 
wavered,  and  finally  he  fell.  But  he  did  not  so  revolt  from 
God  as  not  to  regret  that  he  had  revolted, 

A  council  of  the  wicked  angels  is  held,  to  plot  the  destruc- 
tion of  Jesus,  and  Satan,  in  a  characteristic  speech,  lias  pro- 
pounded his  scheme.  At  this  point  Abbadona  is  introduced 
by  Klopstock,  We  quote  from  the  second  book  of  the  j\[es- 
siah,  using  this  time  the  prose  version  of  Joseph  Collyer  : 

Before  the  throne  sat  Abbadona  by  himself  in  deep  dejection,  ruminat- 
ing with  keenest  anguish  on  the  past  and  the  future.  Before  his  face, 
which  was  deformed  by  melancholy,  internal  anguish,  and  sad  dismaj', 
he  beheld  tortures  accumulated  on  tortures,  extending  into  eternity.  He 
then  looked  back  to  those  happy  days  when  he  himself  was  a  briglit  ser- 
aph and  the  friend  of  the  e.xalted  Abdiel;  who,  on  the  day  of  the  revolt, 


Klopstock.  47 

bravely  vindicated  the  cause  of  God,  and  having  zealously  contended  for 
the  truth  before  the  apo:ftate  legions,  returned  without  him  to  his  Cre- 
ator, invincible,  and  crowned  with  immortal  glory.  Abbadona  was  near 
escaping  with  that  heroic  seraph;  but  being  surrounded  with  the  rapid 
chariots  of  Satan,  and  the  bright  bands  of  those  who  fell  from  their  alle- 
giance, he  drew  back ;  and  though  Abdiel,  with  looks  of  menacing  love, 
chid  his  delay,  and  strove  to  hasten  his  escape  from  those  reprobate 
bands,  inebriated  and  dazzled  with  the  delusive  prospect  of  his  future 
godhead  he  no  longer  attended  to  the  once  powerful  eye  of  his  friend, 
but  suffered  himself  to  be  carried  in  triumph  to  Satan.  Now  lament- 
ing in  pensive  silence,  he  revolves  the  history  of  his  once  spotless  inno- 
cence and  tlie  fair  morning  of  his  days  when  he  came  pure  and  happy  out 
of  the  hand  of  his  Creator.  At  once  the  Almighty  Source  of  Goodness 
formed  him  and  Abdiel,  when,  filled  with  inborn  rapture,  they  thus  ad- 
dressed each  other:  "  Ah,  beauteous  form,  what  are  we?  Where,  my 
beloved,  didst  thou  first  see  me?  How  long  hast  thou— how  long  have 
I  existed?  Come,  0  come,  my  divine  friend,  embrace  me — admit  me  into 
thy  bosom — let  mc  leani  thy  thoughts." 

■In  the  meantime  came  tlie  glory  of  God,  shining  from  af;ir  with  inefia- 
ble  splendor,  fraught  with  benediction.  They  looked  around  and  beheld 
an  innumerable  host  of  new  immortals.  A  silver  cloud  then  gently  raised 
them  to  the  Eternal.  They  saw  their  Creator.  They  called  him  Fatiier, 
and  enraptured  adored  him  as  the  source  of  their  liappiness. 

Abbadona,  tortured  by  these  thoughts,  shed  a  torrent  of  tears,  and 
now  resolved  to  oppose  the  blasphemous  speech  of  Satan,  which  had  filled 
him  with  horror.  He  thrice  attempted  to  speak,  but"  his  sighs  stopped 
his  utterance.  ["Thrice  he  assayed,  and  thrice,  in  spite  of  scorn,  |  Tears, 
such  as  angels  weep,  burst  forth;  at  last  |  Words  interwove  with  sighs 
found  out  their  way." — Paradise  Lost,  T,  621-623.]  Thus,  when  in  a 
bloody  battle  two  brothers  are  mortall}'  wounded  by  each  other's  hand, 
at  last,  each  to  the  other  being  mutually  known,  they  are  unable  to  ex- 
press the  strong  sensations  of  their  hearts,  and  sighs  only  proceed  from 
their  dying  lips.     At  length  Abbadona  thus  broke  silence: 

"Though  I  incur  the  everlasting  displeasure  of  this  assembly,  I  will  not 
refrain  from  speaking.  Yes,  Satan;  I  will  boldly  speak,  and  perhaps 
the  heavy  judgments  of  the  Eternal  may  more  lightly  fall  on  me  than  on 
thee.  0  thou  seducer,  how  I  now  hate  thee  I  This  essence,  this  immor- 
tal essence,  which  thou  hast  snatched  from  its  Creator,  he  will  perpetu- 
ally require  of  thee.  ...  He  will  require  of  thee  the  whole  assembly  of 
immortal  spirits,  by  thee  involved  in  ruin.-  Thou  execrable  deceiver, 
with  thee  I  renounce  all  connection.  I  will  not  participate  in  thine  im- 
potent project  of  putting  to  death  the  divine  Messiah.  Against  whom, 
0  spirit  accursed!  do.st  thou  rave?  It  is  against  him  who  thou  art 
forced  to  confess   is  more  mighty  than  thyself!      Has  not  his  irresist- 


48  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

ibie  thunder  sufficiently  disfigured  thine  audacious  front?  ["His  face 
Deep  scars  of  thunder  had  intrenched."  —  Paradise  Lost,  I,  600.] 
.  .  .  Satan  heard  him  witii  impatient  rage,  and  instantly  trom  the  top 
of  his  throne  attempted  to  hurl  at  his  devoted  head  an  enormous  rock; 
["  Jaculation  dire,"  indeed,  in  the  present  case.  The  original  in  Milton 
had  at  least  some  semblance  of  a  Titanic  majesty.  Compare  Paradise 
Lost,  VI.,  635-666],  but  his  destructive  right  hand  dropped,  shriveled 
and  void  of  strength.  Then,  stamping  with  impotent  fury,  three  times 
his  disappointed  malice  shook  his  whole  frame,  three  times  he  cast  a  look 
of  malignant  fury  at  Abbadona,  while  his  struggling  passions  stopped  his 
voice.  Abbadona,  with  an  afflicted  counienance,  still  stood  before  him, 
firm  and  intrepid. 

Adramelech  now  intervenes  with  a  speecli  in  bitter  scorn 
of  Abbadona — Adramelech,  a  second  evil  angel  invented  by 
Klopstock.  This  invention,  by  the  way,  bears  the  stamp  of 
real  genius.  Adramelech  is  secretly  rival  and  foe  to  Satan, 
whom  he  plots  to  supplant  and  overthrow.  His  speech,  in 
opposition  to  Abbadona,  elicits  universal  applause.  Satan 
and  Adramelech,  amid  tumults  of  acclamation,  start  on  their 
earthwai-d  way.     Klopstock  again  : 

Abbadona,  who  alone  had  remained  unmoved,  followed  at  a  distance, 
either  still  to  persuade  them  [Satan  and  Adramelech]  from  engaging  in 
the  dire  attempt,  or  to  behold  the  consequences  of  the  dreadful  deed. 
Now,  with  steps  dilatory  and  slow,  he  advanced,  and,  before  he  was 
aware,  found  himself  before  the  angels  who  guarded  the  gate.  But  how 
was  he  confounded  when  he  saw  there  the  invincible  Abdiel!  Sighing  he 
held  down  his  head  and  thought  of  retiring ;  then  resolved  to  advance ; 
then,  trembling  and  filled  with  perturbation,  determined  to  fly  into  tha  im- 
mense abyss  of  space;  but  instantly  collecting  himself  he  moved  toward 
the  seraph.  His  beating  heart  spoke  tiie  terror  of  his  mind ;  distressful 
tears,  such  as  fallen  angels  weep  [^Paradise  Lost,  I,  622,  already  quoted], 
fell  from  his  eyes;  deep  sighs  burst  from  his  agonizing  breast,  and  a  con- 
tinual tremor,  never  felt  by  mortals,  shook  his  whole  frame.  Abdiel, 
with  an  open,  tranquil  eye,  stood  in  fixed  attention,  gazing  up  the  bright 
stream  of  light,  and  with  sweet  serenity  was  viewing  the  distant  worlds, 
formed  bj'  the  Creator,  to  whom  he  had  ever  remained  faithful.  He  saw 
not  Abbadona.  As  the  sun  on  its  natal  daj'  poured  his  resplendent 
beams  on  the  new  created  earth,  so  shone  the  bright  seraph ;  but  the 
afflicted  Abbadona  felt  no  genial  influences  from  his  refulgent  rays. 
Sighing,  he  cried  to  himself,  in  plaintive  voice,  Abdiel,  my  brother !  wilt 
thou  forever  shun  me?  Etc.,  etc.,  etc. 


K  lop  stock.  49 

In  our  anxiety,  on  the  one  hand,  not  to  do  Klopstock  injus- 
tice, and,  on  the  other  hand,  not  to  fail  of  showing  him  as  he 
is  to  our  readers,  we  are  constantly  in  doubt  at  what  point 
to  suspend  our  citations  and  content  ourselves  with  simply 
asserting,  in  place  of  actually  proving,  our  worthy  poet  to  be 
tedious.  For  instance,  here,  will  it  not  be  accepted  as  suffi- 
cient if  we  say  that  Klopstock  makes  Abbadona  go  on  from 
this  ])oint,  page  after  page,  expressing  his  distracted  and 
wretched  tlioughts  and  emotions  ?  There  is  never,  with  this 
poem,  a  moment  when  the  action,  always  languid,  is  not  likely 
to  come  to  a  dead  standstill,  for  a  speech  from  some  one,  in- 
terjected, to  express  a  series  of  reflections  and  emotions — re- 
flections and  emotions  generally,  it  must  be  acknowledged, 
appropriate  enough,  but  also  generally,  it  must  be  lamented, 
conscientiously  commonplace.  You  may  suppose,  when  a 
speech  thus  introduced  from  some  actor — or,  quite  as  likely, 
from  some  mere  spectator — in  the  plot,  has  come  to  its  apparent 
term,  and  when  the  author  himself  resumes  the  word — you 
may,  we  say,  suppose  that  now,  at  least,  the  action  will  pro- 
ceed without  further  delay;  but  that  will  be  because  you 
have  not  yet  learned  your  poet.  The  apparent  term  to  the 
speech  was  not  a  term  at  all — far  from  it — it  was  just  a 
pause.  The  pause  over,  the  speech  takes  a  new  start  re- 
freshed, and  ambles  exhaustlessly  on.  There  was,  in  fact — 
as  in  the  author,  so  in  the  author's  subject — no  reason  why 
that  speech  should  ever  end.  Klopstock's  speeches  have 
often  the  effect  of  simply  so  much  utterance,  cut  oflf  in 
lengths,  greater  or  less,  as  happens.  They  might  as  easily 
have  been  shorter;  but  be  thankful,  they  might  also  as  easily 
have  been  longer. 

It  constantly  seems  to  Klopstock  that,  for  translating 
phlegm  into  passion,  reason  into  imagination — in  one  word, 
prose  into  poetry — nothing  at  any  time  is  necessary  beyond 
suddenly  breaking  out  into  a  personification  and  apostrophe. 
'HuTcis  no  object  so  inanimate,  no  idea  so  abstract,  as  to  be 
i'or  an  instant  safe  against  a  galvanic  touch  of  tliis  sort  from 
Klopstock  that  shall  make  it  spring  up  in  momentary  impotent 
3 


50  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

mimicry  of  life,  Klopstock  was  a  true  poet,  but  it  is  strange 
indeed  that  any  true  poet  could  write  as  Klopstock  wrote 
and  fail  to  feel  how  purely  a  trick  of  form  this  use  of  rhet- 
orical figure  was  becoming  in  his  hands. 

Abbadona  re-appears  as  permitted  beholder,  deeply  moved, 
at  the^'Spectacle  of  the  crucifixion;  then  once  more,  and  for 
the  last  time,  in  a  vision,  vouchsafed  to  our  forefather  Adam 
and  reported  by  him,  of  the  final  judgment  of  men  and  an- 
gels. During  the  period  occupied  by  Klopstock  in  the  com- 
position of  the  llessiah,  it  was,  with  some  theologians,  a  matter 
of  grave  concern,  on  behalf  of  tlie  public,  what  destiny, 
whether  of  restitution  to  his  original  happy  state,  or  of  hope- 
less condemnation,  should  be  assigned  by  the  poet  to  Abba- 
dona. One  solicitous  divine  wrote  to  Klopstock  earnestly 
beseeching  him,  for  the  sake  of  religion,  not  to  save  the 
fallen  angel.  Klopstock  replied  reassuringly,  though  vaguely ; 
but  his  feelings  at  last  were  too  nuicli  for  his  orthodoxy. 
He  relented  toward  the  creature  of  his  hands^  and  saved 
Abbadona. 

So  much  for  one  episode  of  the  MesslaJi. 

And  so  much  for  the  3Iessiah  itself,  which  is  made  up  of 
episodes. 

For  the  poem  has  now  been  fairly,  and,  for  our  purpose, 
sufficiently,  represented.  The  quality  of  it  is  all  here.  It 
is  the  quantity  only  that  is  lacking.  Or,  if  there  lacks  any 
part  of  the  quality  too,  it  is  chiefly  that  element  of  homily 
which  in  the  day  of  its  first  fame  made  this  sacred  epic  a 
quarry  of  material  for  preachers. 

We  almost  fear  that,  to  sympathetic  readers,  we  shall  seem 
to  have  been  too  little  appreciative  of  our  poet's  merit.  But 
we  have  sincerely  sought  to  be  candid  and  just.  There  is 
really  scarce  any  limit  to  the  tireless,  tiresome  prolixity  of 
Klopstock.  For  instance,  three  whole  books  are  occupied 
with  an  inconceivably  detailed  and  delayed  account  of  the 
crucifixion.  This  part  of  the  poem,  which  should  have  been 
its  strongest,  is  its  weakest.  Should  have  been,  we  say  ; 
but  we  know  well  that,  in  the  nature  of  things,  it  could  not 


Klopstock.  5 1 

be;  and  that  impossibility  is  what  condemns  Klopstock's 
choice  of  subject  as  one  unfit  to  liave  been  made.  If  this 
German  writer  had  but  learned  how,  on  some  occasions,  to 
condense,  as,  alas,  by  instinct  he  knew  only  too  Avell  how  on 
all  occasions  to  expand — who  can  say? — he  might  have  made 
his  poem  a  "  possession  forever,"  instead  of  a  possession  for 
a  day. 

Of  the  odes  of  Klopstock,  a  single  specimen,  much  con- 
densed, must  suffice,  but  that  shall  be  one  of  the  best.  It  is 
the  ode  referi-ed  to  so  significantly  in  Goethe's  Sorroics  of  \  1 
Wert/iei'.  Werther  and  Charlotte,  in  that  work  of  Goethe's,  / 
witness  together  a  thunder-storm,  and  Charlotte  interprets 
to  Werther  the  sentiment  of  what  they  behold  by  simply 
exclaiming,  "  Klopstock  !  "  The  sudden  obtrusion  of  this 
not  very  poetic  proper  name,  breaking  the  tenor  of  over- 
strained intensity  which  prevails  throughout  the  Werther, 
has  an  extremely  odd,  even  Avhimsical,  effect  on  the  English 
reader — quite  the  reverse  of  a  climax  in  the  sublime. 
"Klopstock"  was  felt  by  the  Germans  themselves  to  be  a 
name  lacking  in  dignity.  But  what  in  this  respect  the  name 
lacked,  the  owner  of  the  name  amply  supplied.  Goethe 
notes  that  Klopstock's  air  was  that  of  a  man  conscious  of  a 
high  moral  mission  in  the  world.  To  the  present  writer, 
however,  "  Klopstock  !  "  as  an  exclamation  of  sublimit}^,  re- 
mains a  bit  humorous.  Not  in  the  least  so  is  the  ode  itself 
thus  referred  to,  which  we  here  condense  from  Taylor's 
prose  translation.  The  German  original  is  in  irregular,  un-  j/* 
rhymed  verse,  Pindaric  in  bold  abruptness  and  freedom  of 
forjn,  but  Hebrew  in  devotional  spirit.  It  is  entitled  lYie  ^ 
FestliHil  of  iSjyrhu/ : 

Xot  into  the  ocean  of  all  the  worlds  wonld  I  plunge.  .  .  . 

Only  around  the  drop  on  the  bucket,  only  around  tlie  earth,  would  I 
hover  and  adore.  Hallelujah  !  hallelujuii !  the  drop  on  the  bucket  Mowed 
also  out  of  the  hand  of  the  Almighty. 

.  .  .  And  who  am  I?  Hallelujah  to  the  Creator!  more  than  the  earths 
which  lluwed,  more  than  the  .seven  stars  which  conglomerated  out  of  beams. 

But  thou,  worm  of  spring,  which,  greenly-golden,  art  fluttering  beside 
me,  ihou  livest,  and  art,  perhaps,  ah  1  not  immortal  ? 


/ 


52  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

I  went  out  to  adore,  and  I  weep.  Forgive,  forgive  this  tear  also  to  the 
finite  one,  0  thon  who  slialt  be ! 

Thon  wilt  unveil  to  me  all  doubts,  thou  who  shalt  guide  me  through 
the  dark  valley  of  death — I  shall  then  learn  whether  the  golden  worm 
had  a  souh 

.  .  .  The  morning  sun  grows  sultry ;  clouds  stream  aloof ;  visible  is 
lie  who  comes — the  Eternal. 

Now  swoop,  rush,  whirl  the  winds ;  bows  the  wood ;  billows  the 
stream.  .  .  . 

The  wood  bows,  the  stream  flees,  and  I  fall  not  on  my  face  ?  Lord, 
Lord,  God  merciful  and  gracious,  thou  approaching  power  1  have  mercj' 
on  me !  .  .  . 

See  ye  the  new  sign  of  his  presence,  tlie  darting  beam  ?  Hear  ye, 
high  in  the  cloud,  the  thunder  of  the  Lord  ?  It  calls :  Jehovah  .  .  . 
Jeiiovah  .  .  .  and  the  struck  forest  smokes. 

But  not  our  hut.     Our  Father  bade  his  destroyer  to  pass  over  our  hut. 

Ah!  already  rushes  heaven  and  eartli  with  the  gracious  rain ;  now  is 
the  earth  (how  it  thirsted !)  refreshed,  and  the  heaven  (how  it  was 
ladeu  !)  disburdened. 

Behold,  Jehovah  comes  no  longer  in  storm  ;  in  gentle,  pleasant  mur- 
murs comes  Jehovah,  and  under  him  bends  the  bow  of  peace! 

We  here,  a.s  promised,  conclude  our  exhibition  by  example 
of  Klopstock  as  poet.  As  poetical  critic,  liowever,  using 
himself  for  his  subject,  he  deserves  still  to  have  hearing  for 
a  moment  or  two.  Klopstock'  felt  the  necessity  of  instruct- 
ing liis  public  in  the  principles  on  which  he  souglit  to  Avrite 
poetry  of  the  highest  kind.  From  an  essay  of  his,  printed 
in  preface  to  one  of  the  installments  in  which  his  Messiah 
originally  appeared,  we  separate  a  few  expressions  of  opinion 
on  the  subject  of  Divine  Poetry.  There  is  abundant  self- 
revelation,  on  the  poet's  pare,  in  every  paragrai:)h  of  this 
prefatory  essay.     Klopstock : 

A  piece  of  sublime  poetrj'  is  a  work  of  genius  in  which  strokes  of  wit 
are  to  be  spariugly  used. 

There  are  masterpieces  of  wit  that  neither  reach  the  heart  nor  flow 
from  it;  but  a  genius  without  the  tender  feelings  of  the  heart  is  very 
imperfect. 

The  highest  and  utmost  effect  of  genius  is  to  move  the  whole  soul. 

.  .  .  Young's  Night  Tliougliis  is  perhaps  a  work  that  has  the  merit  of 
haviu":   fewer  faults  than  anv  other.       If  we    take  from   him  what  he 


Klopstock.  53 

says  as  a  Cliristiau,  Socrates  rcnuiins ;  but  liow  does  tlie  Christian  rise 
above  Socrates !  .  .  . 

His  [the  sacred  poet'sj  design  is  more  extensive  than  awaking  a  single 
passion.  ...  By  a  masterpiece  of  skill  he  lays  before  ns  views  at  which, 
by  a  sudden  and  powerful  touch,  he  makes  us  cry  out  with  joy,  stand 
immovably  fixed  in  astonishment,  or,  tilled  with  grief  and  terror,  turn 
pale,  tremble,  and  weep. 

Tlie  last  foregoing  sentence  reveals  what  was  tlie  perfectly 
conscious  aim  of  Klopstock,  in  those  innumerable  passages 
of  his  poem  in  which,  with  exclamation  points,  with  superla- 
tive phrases,  with  gi-ammatical  and  rhetorical  figure,  in  short, 
with  all  the  futile  exterior  artifices  of  intense  writing,  he  in- 
vokes the  passions  of  the  reader.  He  will  now  set  forth 
why  he  cultivated  prolixity  on  principle  : 

When  tlie  poet,  in  some  important  part  of  his  work,  designs  strongly  to 
affect  the  soul  he  will  perlups  proceed  unabsorbed  in  the  followuig 
manner.  .  .  .  He  will  sa}-,  In  order  strongly  to  affect  the  mind,  I  grad- 
ually rise,  that  every  step  may  prepare  for  what  is  to  follow.  In  order 
to  till  my  readers  with  a  sorrow  mixed  with  silent  astonisiimenr,  I  must 
insensibly  encompass  them  witli  sorrowful  images.  I  must  lirst  remind 
them  of  certain  truths  that  open  the  soul  to  the  reception  of  the  last  and 
most  powerful  impressions.  .  .  .  Were  I  abruptly  to  bring  them  thither, 
they  would  be  rather  stunned  thaik  tilled  with  strong  sensations. 

Here  is  a  critical  sentence  of  Klopstock's,  the  very  last 
word  of  which,  a  proper  name,  will,  we  venture  to  say,  sur- 
prise every  reader  : 

The  Greeks,  the  Romans,  and  the  French  have  all  their  short  golden 
age  of  polite  literature;  and  I  do  not  know  why  we  have  not  given 
one  to  the  English;  they  have  long  iiad  their  masterpieces,  and  these 
have  not  ceased  with — Glover! 

"Glover"  is  the  name  of  an  English  poet  whose  now  for- 
gotten epics,  especially  the  Leonidas,  enjoyed  a  great  fame 
in  their  day.  To  Coleridge  and  Wordsworth,  paying  together 
a  visit  of  youthful  reverence  to  the  venerable  German  poet 
in  his  home,  Klopstock  expressed  the  opinion  that  Glover's 
blank  verse  was  superior  to  Milton's  !  Such  are  the  phases 
of  fame,  and  such  may  l»e  tlie  value  of  critical  o|)inion  pro- 
nounced by  authority  enjoying  its  moment  oi  imi)erial  sway! 


54  Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 


What  follows,  finishing  our  citations  from  this  essay  of 
Klopstock,  is  perhaps  as  significant  as  any  thing  it  contains. 
The  poet  seems  to  be  reassuring  at  once  himself  and  his 
admirers  as  to  their  spiritual  state  : 

Here  [in  sacred  poetry]  both  the  poet  and  his  reader  may  certainly 
know  whetiier  they  are  Christians.  For  lie  can  be  nothing  less  who  liere 
moves  our  wiiole  souls,  nor  he  who  finds  himself  thus  moved.  For  how 
shall  a  poet,  of  the  greatest  genius,  without  feeling  the  strong  impressions 
of  religion,  without  an  upright  heart,  glowing  with  all  the  fervor  of  piety, 
produce  iu  our  minds  the  most  lively  and  devout  sensaiioos? 

It  is  in  strict  keeping  with  the  sentiment  of  the  last  fore- 
going, that  Klopstock  should  in  his  old  age  have  used,  as  he 
did  use,  his  own  3fessiah  for  a  manual  of  private  devotion. 
Klopstock's  piety  was  probably  genuine  ;  but  it  had  in  it  a 
strong  tincture  of  selt-complacency,  and  it  was  highly  senti- 
mental. It  by  no  means  prevented  its  subject,  so  Scherer 
assures  us,  from  smoking,  from  drinking,  from  promiscuously 
kissing,  on  first  introduction,  girls  whom  he  met,  and  in  gen- 
eral from  deporting  himself  with  a  freedom  and  levity  quite 
scandalizing  to  the  grave  Swiss  Bodmer,  who  had  made 
haste  to  invite  the  author  of  so  edifying  an  epic  as  the  3Ies- 
siah  to  visit  him  at  his  home  *in  Zurich.  The  deliberately 
calculating  young  bachelor  poet  had  his  peculiar  plans  of 
self-culture.  Before  accepting  Bodmer's  invitation,  he  bar- 
gained with  that  gentleman  on  the  subject  of  being  provided 
with  the  privilege  of  young  ladies'  society  in  Zurich: 

How  near  are  you  [so  he  asks  his  Swiss  correspondent]  to  any  young 
ladies  of  your  acquaintance,  into  whose  society  you  may  think  I  would  be 
admitted?  The  heart  of  a  young  woman  is  an  extensive  scene  of  action 
into  whose  labyrinth  a  poet  must  frequently  penetrate,  if  he  wishes  to 
acquire  profound  knowledge. 

Klopstock  became  remarkably  communicative  and  open  to 
his  Zurich  admirer.  "I  love,"  he  writes — this,  remember,  to 
a  man  whom  he  has  never  seen,  a  married  man,  a  man  fifty 
years  old,  that  is,  more  than  twice  as  old  as  himself  (for 
Klopstock  published  the  first  installment  of  his  epic  when  he 
was  twenty-four  years  of  age) — "I  love  a  tender  holy  maid, 


Klopstock.  55 

to  whom  my  first  Ode  is  addressed,  with  the  most  tender 
holy  love."  This  "  tender  holy  "  lover  was,  however,  dis- 
consolate. He  could  not  be  sure  that  his  affection  was  recip- 
rocated. "  By  Milton's  shade,"  Klopstock  continues,  "  by 
thine  ever  blessed  infants,  by  thine  own  great  soul,  I  adjure 
thee,  Bodmer,  make  me  happy  if  thou  canst."  The  exact 
practical  thing,  namely,  which  Klopstock  wanted  of  Bodmer, 
was  that  the  latter  should  interest  and  bestir  himself  to  get 
the  author  of  the  Messiah  a  snug  place  of  some  sort,  a  pen- 
sion would  be  better,  to  enable  him  to  marry,  and,  in  fruitful, 
placid  ease  of  mind,  finish  his  great  poem.  The  mendicant 
poet  put  a  very  fine  point  upon  the  matter.  Pregnantly 
suggesting  that  the  Prince  of  Orange  was  said  to  be  a  gen- 
erous fellow,  "  What  if  he  should  give  me  a  pension  ?  "  he 
asks;  but  adds:  "If  you  can  do  anything  to  assist  me  in 
this  business,  excellent  Bodmer,  I  hope  you  will  do  it,  but 
not  as  asking  in  my  name  ;  for  I  would  not  beg  my  fortune 
of  princes,  though  I  would  of  Bodmer.'''' 

"  Fanny "  was  the  name  of  the  "  tender  holy "  maid. 
Fanny  kept  poor  Klopstock  in  dreadful  suspense,  until  lie 
did  at  length  get  a  pension — it  was  from  the  king  of  Denmark 
when  it  came;  but,  by  the  time  that  happened,  Klopstock's 
own  anxiety  seems  for  some  reason  to  have  become  allayed, 
and  he  in  fact  married  another  lady,  one  who  fell  in  love 
Avith  the  poet  as  self-revealed  in  his  Messiah.  "  Margaret " 
was  this  lady's  name,  a  name  immortal,  in  the  affectionate 
diminutive  form  of  "  Meta,"  by  association  with  Klopstock. 
Meta  was  supremely  happy  in  her  husband,  and.  she  made 
her  husband  supremely  happy,  four  years  only,  and  then  she 
died.  Klopstock  waited  long  a  widower  ;  he  at  length  mar- 
ried again.  His  second  wife  was  a  relative  of  Meta.  All 
these  three  rest  together  now,  side  by  side,  in  Ottensen,  near 
Hamburg,  in  Germany.  Klopstock  himself  was  buried  with 
such  honors  as  are  usually  accorded  only  to  princes. 

Few  poets  of  any  country  or  age  have  had  an  experience 
of  life,  on  the  whole,  so  happy  as  was  Klopstock's.  The  full- 
ness of  fame  was  his  while  he  lived,  and  he  seems  to  have 


56  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


been  troiibled  with  no  misgivings  as  to  its  future  continu- 
ance. That  his  fame  at  least  was  stainless  signifies  more 
now,  to  the  poet,  than  that  it  should  be  either  great  or  lasting. 
Carlyle,  with  that  poetic  touch  of  his,  spoke  admiringly  of 
the  "  azure  purity  of  Klopstock." 


IV. 

L  E  S  S  I  N  G. 

1739-1781. 

In  all  German  literary  history,  no  figure  whatever  stands 
out  more  boldly  in  relief— square-set,  sturdy,  stanch,  strong, 
positive,  combative,  an  individual  soul  "  whole  in  himself  " 
— none  with  more  challenge  in  his  attitude,  peremptory,  im- 
perious, commanding  heed,  than  the  figure  of  Lessing.  Heine 
calls  him  the  continuator  of  Luther.  And  indeed,  during  the 
two  hundred  years  that  immediately  followed  Luther,  what 
(Terman  literary  name  emerges  so  worthy  as  was  Lessing 
to  stand  second  in  that  mighty  succession  ?  Lessing  was  five 
years  later  than  Klopstock;  but  Lessing  did  more  for  Ger- 
man literature  by  criticising,  than  Klopstock  did  by  creating. 
^  Lessing  was  supremely  a  critic.  His  critical  ideas  he  em- 
bodied, indeed,  in  original  work  of  his  own— work  which 
maintains  to  this  day  a  higher  than  merely  respectable  rank 
in  literature ;  but  it  is  by  his  labors  in  criticism,  rather  than 
by  his  labors  in  creation,  that  Lessing  has  been,  as  he  still  is, 
and  as  he  is  likely  long  to  be,  a  living  literary  force. 

The  story  of  this  man's  life  is  at  once  stimulating  and  de- 
pressing. It  is  a  story  of  struggle  against  adversity,  struggle 
always  manfully  maintained,  but  struggle  almost  never  tri- 
umphantly victorious.  Gotthold  Ephraim  Lessing  was  the  son 
of  a  Lutheran  pastor.  The  pastor  destined  his  son  to  his  own 
vocation;  but  the  disposition  of  the  youth  destined  him  far 
otherwise.  Sent  to  the  University  of  Leipsic  for  the  study 
of  theology,  the  Lutheran  clergyman's  son   found    in    that 


Lessing.  57 

Saxon  Paris  what  interested  him  more  than  theology.  He 
found  the  theatre.  He  devoted  himself  assiduously  to  the 
cultivation  of  acquaintanceship  with  actors  and  actresses. 
The  issue  was  a  permanent  diversion  of  his  mental  activity. 
He  became  a  dramatic  writer  and  dramatic  critic.  His  sub- 
sequent literary  production  was  nearly  all  of  it  determined 
by  his  bent  toward  the  theatre. 

Intellectual  independence  was  the  distinguishing  note  in 
Lessing's  character.  Convention  counted  with  him  fur 
nothing.  His  habitual  attitude  of  mind  was  that  of  doubt 
and  question  as  to  traditional  ideas.  Finding  German  liter- 
ature attached  as  a  parasite  to  the  French,  he  strove,  by 
criticism,  as  Klopstock  strove  by  production,  to  break  the, 
ignominious  bond  that  held  it  subject,  and  to  give  it  rooting 
and  grounding  of  its  own,  in  reason,  in  nature,  and  in  truth. 
It  need  not  be  concealed  that  Lessing's  contempt  of  French 
literary  models  was  probably  pricked  on  by  a  practical  dis- 
appointment which  he  experienced.  For,  like  so  many  of 
his  literary  compatriots,  Lessing,  too,  was  at  one  time  fain 
to  be  the  virtual  pensioner  of  a  prince.  He  failed  of  ap- 
pointment to  a  librarianship  under  Frederick  the  Great,  and 
from  that  moment  his  natural  pure  "joy  of  fighting"  was 
pungent  with  some  spice  of  spite  transferred  against  those 
French  authors  whom  the  Prussian  monai'ch  counted  for  all  in 
all.  Voltaire  he  criticised  with  startling  boldness.  He  took  i^ 
up  one  after  another  the  tragedies  of  that  brilliant  man  of 
letters,  and  mercilessly  showed  how  they  violated  the  essen- 
tial truth  of  reason  and  of  nature.  Nay,  he  vindicated  ■' 
Aristotle  himself  against  Voltaire,  and  against  that  whole 
school,  classic  so-called,  of  dramatic  writers  who,  claiming 
to  represent,  in  fact  misrepresented,  the  teachings  of  the 
mighty  Greek. 

The  effect  was  prodigious.  Rather,  we  should  say,  the 
effect  has  been  prodigious.  For  the  influence  of  Lessing's 
fruitful  criticism  did  not  exhaust  itself  in  producing  an  im- 
mense immediate  effect.  The  effect  continues  to  this  day, 
and  it  is  not  Germnn  literature  aloii(>  that  feels  it,  but  like- 
.3* 


58  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


wise  the  literature  of  every  Western  nation.  Lessing,  in 
fact,  is  probably  at  this  moment  exercising  a  literary  influ- 
ence, extensive  and  intensive,  not  second  to  that  of  any  other 
name  whatever  in  the  world,  since  Aristotle.  If  Luther  made 
a  German  literature  possible,  Lessing  made  a  German  litera- 
ture actual.  Of  all  that  now  is  most  glorious  in  the  exploits 
of  the  German  literary  mind,  achieved  since  Luther,  it  is  not 
too  much  to  say  that  Lessing  is  an  inseparable  element. 

We  have  thus  certainly  not  stinted  our  praise  of  Lessing 
as  critic.  It  is  only  just,  now,  to  add  that  Lessing's  destruc- 
tive critical  rage  against  the  French  carried  with  it  some- 
thing of  the  ill  grace  displayed  by  a  man  who  should,  with 
an  air,  kick  down  a  scaffolding  that  had  just  helped  him  to 
climb.  French  criticism  contributed  to  put  Lessing  in  the 
way  of  discovering  the  faults  in  French  literature.  Diderot 
as  critic  was  in  part  master  to  both  Lessing  and  Goethe. 
To  a  taunt — it  should  have  been,  perhaps  it  was,  a  German 
taunt — leveled  once  against  the  French,  that  they  never  in- 
vented any  thing,  it  was  wittily  replied,  "  At  least  Descartes 
invented  German  philosophy."  Mr.  John  Morley,  quoting 
this,  boldly  adds:  "  Still  more  true  is  it  that  Diderot  invented 
German  criticism."  The  boast  of  absolute  originality  is 
always  and  every-where  a  very  precarious  boast.  "  He  that 
pleadeth  his  cause  first  seemeth  just;  but  his  neighbor  cometh 
and  searcheth  him  out." 

Lessing's  native  independence  of  mind  was  early  asserted 
against  his  parents,  who,  both  of  them,  were  anxious  about 
their  son,  involved  amid  the  temptations  of  a  city.  How  far 
from  being  merely  querulous  and  idle  was  the  solicitude 
they  felt,  maj'  be  judged  from  some  things  which  Taylor  (of 
Norwich)  relates  of  the  young  man's  ways.  Lessing  had 
visited  home,  summoned  thither  to  see  his  mother,  said  to  be 
dying.  The  dying  mother  revived,  and  every  seduction  of 
home  influence  was  applied  to  reclaim  the  youth  from  his 
irregular  life.  But  when  he  went  back  to  Leipsic  it  was 
rather  to  the  theatre  again  than  to  the  university.  The 
actress,   however,   who    formerly   favored    him    had    mean- 


Lessing.  59 

while  transferred  her  movable  affections  elsewhere.  "A 
younger  actress,"  Taylor  says,  "  named  Lorenzin,  was  the 
Eucharis  Avho  superseded  this  Calypso.  Lessing  took  an  ex- 
cursion w  ith  her  to  Vienna  under  a  feigned  name." 

To  his  father,  Lessing  writes  (we  draw  from  W.  Taylor) : 

I  beg  you  will  send  hither  the  manuscripts  in  my  drawer;  and  not  keep 
back  those  sheets  inscribed  "  Love  and  Wine."  They  are  chiefly  free 
imitations  of  Anacreon,  and  not  such  as  an  equitable  moralist  can  blame. 

A  highly  liberal  view,  that  which  the  didactic  son  thus  in- 
culcates on  his  father,  as  to  what  an  "equitable  moralist" 
might  blame  !  Concerning  his  poetic  effusions  on  "  Love  and 
Wine,"  he  further  says: 

In  fact,  the  only  cause  of  their  existence  is  the  desire  of  trying  my 
hand  at  all  sorts  of  poetry. 

This  is  exactly  in  the  line  proper  to  the  forerunner  of 
Goethe.  In  the  same  communication  to  his  father,  Lessing 
lets  us  into  the  secret  of  his  aspiring  literary  ambition: 

If  the  title  of  the  German  Moliere  could  Justly  be  given  to  me,  I 
should  have  secured  an  eternal  name.  To  speak  out,  I  heartily  covet  to 
deserve  it ;  but  I  am  fully  conscious  of  its  compass,  and  of  my  impotence. 
Am  I  wrong  for  selecting  a  line  of  pursuit  in  which  few  of  my  country- 
men have  hitherto  excelled?  Am  I  wrong  for  determining  not  to  leave 
off  producing  unlil  some  masterpiece  of  mine  shall  exist? 

The  cool  assumption  of  openness,  on  his  father's  part,  to 
mere  professional  motive,  made  by  the  son  in  the  argumentam 
ad  hominem  which  follows,  is  suggestive.  Young  Lessing 
says  : 

What  if  I  were  to  write  a  comedy  such  as  you  theologians  would  praise 
— you  think  it  impossible — not  if  I  were  to  turn  into  ridicule  the  de- 
spisers  of  their  profession.  Own  that  tliis  would  blunt  a  little  of  your 
sharpness. 

The  willful  son  Avent  his  own  way.  High-spirited  as  he 
was,  and  really  sensitive  on  the  point  of  honor,  Lessing 
seems  nevertheless  to  have  submittefl,  against  his  conscience, 
to  subscribing  a  religious  creed  in  order  to  secure  a  university 
di'gree  and  so  get  on  in  the  world.     He  never  got  on  in   tlu' 


60  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


world  very  well,  for  all  his  degree,  and  his  degree  was  al- 
ways hateful  to  him — probably  i'rom  association  with  the 
cost  to  his  pride  at  which  it  was  won. 

Lessing  was  an  habitual  hard  student.  Though  never, 
in  the  strict  sense,  a  scholar,  he  became  immensely  learned. 
But  he  was  no  recluse.  He  almost  anticipated  Goethe  in  the 
latter's  idea  of  knowing  every  thing,  and  experiencing  every 
thing,  in  order  to  full  self-culture.  For  instance,  Lessing 
gambled,  and,  though  a  poor  man,  he  played  high.  He  af- 
fected to  prize,  as  intellectual  stimulus,  the  excitement,  thus 
arising,  of  lively  hopes  and  fears.  He  wandered  much  about 
the  world,  insatiably  fond  of  change.  But,  wherever  he 
went,  he  studied  and  worked.  He  produced  multifariously, 
his  pay  scarcely  ever  rising  above  the  wnges  of  a  literary 
hack.  The  productions  by  which  he  is  now  most  remem- 
bered are,  a  comedy  entitled  Minna  von  Barnhelm,  and  two 
dramas,  entitled  respectively,  Emilia  Galotti,  and  Nathan 
the  Wise,  together  with  an  essay  on  criticism  and  in  criti- 
cism, entitled  Laocoon.  These  works  are  all  in  prose,  ex- 
cept the  Nathan  the  Wise,  which  is  in  blank  verse.  Lessing 
was  distinctively  a  witty  man,  the  first  in  time  perhaps  among 
Germans  to  take  away  i'rom  that  great  people  the  reproach 
of  not  possessing  the  faculty  to  kindle  wisdom  into  wit. 
Heine,  since,  far  less  wise  surely,  has  contrived  to  be,  or  to 
seem,  far  more  witty  than  was  Lessing,  With  this  doubt- 
ful exception,  Lessing  remains  easily  the  prince  of  German 
wits. 

The  two  works,  verse  and  prose,  by  specimens  from  which 
our  readers  will  best  gain  a  true  idea  of  Lessing,  are  un- 
doubtedly the  Nathan  the  Wise  and  the  Laocoon,  These 
are  his  masterpieces,  the  one  in  creation,  the  other  in 
criticism.  Lessing,  however,  turned  his  hand  to  many  dif- 
ferent forms  of  literary  production.  It  may  serve  to  hint 
the  versatility  of  his  genius,  if  we  give  a  few  samples  of  the 
apologues  in  which  it  was  one  fancy  of  his  to  convey  his 
wisdom  and  his  wit.  Here  is  a  fable  in  which  Lessing  makes 
^sop  himself,  his  own  ideal  fabulist,  take  characteristic  part 


Lessing.  61 

in  a  xevy  short  dialogue  with  a  particular  animal,  whom  he, 
^sop,  liad  often  introduced  in  his  narrations,  and  never 
entirely  to  that  animal's  satisfaction  : 

Said  the  ass  to  JEsop:  "  Tlifi  next  time  you  tell  a  story  about  me,  let 
me  say  something:  that  is  right  rational  and  ingenious." 

"  You  something  ingenious  1  "  said  ^sop ;  "  what  propriety  would 
there  be  in  that  ?  Would  not  the  people  say  you  were  the  moralist  and  I 
the  ass  ?  " 

Lessing  was  sufficiently  unlike  his  own  countrymen  to  be 
able  at  least  to  see  one  of  their  weak  points,  as  the  fable  of 
The  Blind  Hen^  with  its  bluntly  expressed  application, 
shows  : 

A  hen  which  had  become  blind  continued  to  scratch  for  food  as  she 
had  been  used.  What  availed  it  the  industrious  fool?  Another  hen,  that 
could  see,  but  wished  to  spare  her  tender  feet,  never  forsook  the  side  of 
the  former,  and,  without  scratcliing,  enjoyed  the  fruit  of  scratching.  For 
as  often  as  the  blind  hen  turned  up  a  corn,  the  seeing  one  devoured  it. 

The  laborious  German  gathers  the  literary  material  which  the  witty 
Frenchman  uses. 

Here,  in  a  fable  entitled  The  A2n  and  the  Fox,  is  another 
hard  hit  at  a  literary  folly  of  Germans  : 

"  Name  to  me  an  animal,  though  never  so  skillFul,  that  I  cannot  imitate." 
So  bragged  the  ape  to  the  fox.  But  the  fox  replied  :  "  And  do  thou  name 
to  me  an  animal  so  humble  as  to  think  of  imitating  thee." 

Writers  of  my  country  !     Need  I  explain  myself  more  fully ! 

Lessing  wrote  an  essay  on  the  fable,  which  Herder  praised 
as  the  best  philosophic  inquiry  into  the  principles  of  a  given 
literary  form  that  had  appeared  since  Aristotle. 

Now  for  some  exhibition  of  the  N'athan  the  Wise.  "  Na- 
than" is  the  name  of  a  Jew  of  the  time  of  Saladin.  This 
Jew  is  an  embodiment  of  all  the  virtues.  It  has  been  es- 
teemed ])art  of  our  author's  boldness  that  he  dared  make  a 
Jew  his  ideal  character;  so  hated,  so  despised,  and  so  misused 
were  the  Jews  of  Lessing's  day,  in  Germany.  But  the  fact  is 
that  Lessing's  ideal  Jew  was  an  actual  Jew.  A  citizen  of 
Berlin — already,  when  Lessing  wrote  this  play,  illustrious, 
and   deservedly  illustrious,   for  singular  elevation   of  char- 


62  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

acter — the  Hebrew,  Moses  Mendelssohn,  was  the  original  of 
Lessing's  Nathan  the  Sage. 

Moses  Mendelssohn  is  a  personage  even  yet  interesting  to 
us,  otherwise  than  merely  as  the  suggestion  and  inspiration 
of  Lessing's  dramatic  masterpiece.  He  was  not  only  a  vir- 
tuous and  wealthy  Israelite,  but  himself  also  an  eminent 
man  of  letters.  He  stands,  moreover,  in  the  relation  of 
grandfather  to  a  man  of  his  own  name,  better  known  than 
himself,  a  man  the  splendor  of  whose  fame  as  musical  com- 
poser has  had  the  effect  to  obscure  his  merit  as  an  author — 
we  mean,  of  course,  Felix  Mendelssohn.  For  these  various 
reasons  combined,  Moses  Mendelssohn  is  entitled  to  more 
than  mere  passing  mention  at  our  hands.  We  must  let  him 
speak  here  for  himself  in  at  least  a  few  printed  words  of  his 
I  own. 
^*U'*-'V'*^  His  literary  masterpiece  is,  perhaps,  the  Phmdon,  an  argu- 
-^  /  ment  for  the  immortality  of  the  soul.  Tliis  work  enjoys  the 
distinction  of  having  been  sharply  criticized  by  the  philoso- 
'  pher  Kant.  A  curious  circumstance  it  is,  by  the  way,  that, 
early  in  life,  Mendelssohn,  in  a  philosophical  competition,  had 
borne  off  the  prize  from  a  rival  no  less  formidable  than  this 
same  critic  himself.  The  writing,  however,  of  Mendelssohn's, 
that  will,  on  the  Avhole,  at  once  most  interest  our  readers 
and  best  display  the  character  of  the  man  in  that  connection 
with  Lessing  and  with  Lessing's  play  which  makes  it  fit — in- 
deed, well-nigh  imperative — to  introduce  him  here,  is  an  open 
letter  of  his  addressed  to  the  celebrated  Lavater.  Lavater  s 
name  will  be  universally  recognized  as  a  synonym  for  physi- 
ognomy claiming  to  be  a  science.  Lavater  was  a  vehement- 
ly aggressive  Christian,  having  translated  into  German  a 
French  Avork  (by  M.  Bonnet)  on  the  evidences  of  Christian- 
ity. In  dedicating  his  translation  respectfully  to  Moses 
Mendelssohn,  he  incorporated  a  cliallenge  to  that  distin- 
guished adherent  of  Judaism,  to  do  one  or  the  other  of  two 
things,  namely,  confute  the  argument  for  Christianity  con- 
tained in  the  book,  or  else  renounce  his  faith  as  a  Jew. 
Mendelssohn   was  deeply  affected   by  the  challenge.      His 


Lessing.  63 

htalth  was  exceedingly  fragile,  and  tlie  excitement  threat- 
ened serious  consequences.  At  length,  however,  he  so  re- 
plied to  Lavater  that  the  public  generally  agreed,  as  did 
Lavater  himself  in  the  end,  to  hold  the  writer  completely 
relieved  from  the  apparently  hopeless  dilemma  in  which  the 
challenge  had  placed  him.  Mendelssohn's  letter  is  a  docu- 
ment of  considerable  length.  We  extract  and  condense  a 
few  specimen  passages.  What  could  be  more  admirable  in 
taste  and  in  temper  than  the  gently  insinuated  reproof  and 
appeal  of  the  following  sentences,  occurring  early  in  the 
letter  ? 

HoxoRED  Philanthropist:  .  .  .  It  seems  you  still  recollect  the  coufi- 
cleiitial  conversation  I  had  the  pleasure  of  holding  with  yourself  aud  your 
worthy  friends  in  my  apartment.  Can  you  then  possibly  have  forgotten 
how  frequently  I  sought  to  divert  the  discourse  from  religious  to  more 
neutral  topics,  and  how  much  yourself  and  your  friends  had  to  urge  me 
before  I  would  venture  to  deliver  my  opinion  on  a  subject  of  such  vital 
importance?  If  I  am  not  mistaken,  preliminary  assurances  were  even 
given  that  no  public  use  should  ever  be  made  of  any  remarkable  expres- 
sion that  might  drop  on  the  occasion.  Be  that  as  it  may,  I  will  rather 
suppose  myself  in  error  than  tax  you  with  a  breach  of  promise.  But 
.  .  .  what,  sir,  could  induce  you  to  single  me  thus,  against  my  well- 
known  disinclination,  out  of  the  many,  aud  force  me  into  a  public  arena 
which  I  so  much  wished  never  to  have  occasion  to  enter?  If  even  you 
placed  my  reserve  to  the  score  of  mere  timidity  and  bashfuiness,  these 
very  foibles  should  have  deserved  the  moderation  and  forbearance  of  a 
charitable  heart. 

Mendelssohn  sets  forth  his  own  unshaken  religious  posi- 
tion ;  as  follows : 

Of  the  essentials  of  my  religion  I  am  as  firmly,  as  irrefragably,  con- 
vinced as  you,  sir,  or  Mr.  Bonnet,  ever  can  be  of  those  of  yours.  .  .  . 
We  must  finish  certain  inquiries  once  in  our  hfe,  if  we  wish  to  proceed 
further.  This,  I  may  say,  I  had  done,  with  regard  to  religion,  several 
years  ago.     I  read,  compared,  roHected,  and — made  up  my  mind. 

But,  immovably  firm  for  himself  in  his  Judaism,  ^Nlendels- 
sohn  yet  had  no  zeal  to  make  proselytes  of  others.  His  own 
lack  of  the  propagandist  spirit  he  justifies  as  follows: 

It  is  by  virtue  that  I  wish  to  shame  the  opprobrious  opinion  commonly 
entertained  of  a  Jew,  and  not  by  controversial  writings.  .  .  . 


64  Classic  Gentian  Course  in  English. 

Pursuant  to  the  principles  of  my  religion,  I  am  not  to  seek  to  convert 
any  one  who  is  not  born  under  our  laws.  Our  rabbins  unanimously 
teach  that  the  written  and  oral  laws,  which  form  conjointly  our  revealed 
religion,  are  obligatory  on  our  nation  only.  .  .  .  Those  who  regulate 
their  lives  according  to  the  principles  of  the  religion  of  nature  and  of 
reason,  are  called  virtuous  men  of  other  nations,  and  are  the  children  of 
eternal  salvation. 

Our  rabbins  .  .  .  enjoin  us  to  dissuade,  by  vigorous  remonstrauces, 
every  one  who  comes  forward  to  be  converted.  We  are  to  lead  him  to 
reflect  that  the  moment  he  embraces  the  religion  of  the  Israelites,  he  sub- 
scribes gratuitously  to  all  the  rigid  rites  of  that  faith,  to  which  he  must 
then  strictly  conform,  or  await  the  punishment  which  the  legislator  has 
denounced  on  tiieir  infraction.  Finally,  we  are  to  hold  up  to  him  a  faith- 
ful picture  of  the  misery,  tribulation,  and  obloquy,  in  which  the  nation 
is  now  living,  in  order  to  guard  him  from  a  rash  act,  which  he  might 
ultimately  repent. 

.  .  .  Whoever  is  not  born  subject  to  our  laws  has  no  occasion  to  live 
"according  to  them.  "We  consider  ourselves  alone  bound  to  acknowledge 
their  authority;  and  this  can  give  no  offense  to  our  neighbors.  .  .  . 

Suppose  there  were  among  my  contemporaries  a  Confucius  or  a  Solon, 
I  could,  consistently  with  my  religious  principles,  love  and  admire  the 
great  man ;  but  I  should  never  hit  on  the  extravagant  idea  of  converting 
a  Confucius  or  a  Solon.  ...  Do  I  think  there  is  a  chance  of  his  being 
saved?  I  certainly  believe  that  he  who  leads  mankind  on  to  virtue  in 
this  world,  cannot  be  damned  in  the  next.  .  .  . 

Mendelssohn  had  additional  reasons  for  abstaining  from 
controversy  against  the  Christian  religion.     He  says : 

I  am  one  of  an  oppressed  people.  Rights  granted  to  every  otlier  hu- 
man being  my  brethren  in  the  faith  wiUingly  forego.  .  .  .  In  some  places, 
even  a  temporary  domicile  is  denied  them.  Do  the  laws  of  Zurich  allow 
your  circumcised  friend  to  pay  you  a  visit  there?  No.  What  gratitude, 
then,  do  not  my  brethren  owe  to  the  nation  [Prussia],  which  includes 
them  in  its  general  philanthropy,  suffering  them,  without  molestation,  to 
worship  the  Supreme  Being  after  the  rites  of  their  ancestors?  The  gov- 
ernment under  which  I  live  leaves  nothing  to  wish  for  in  tliis  respect; 
and  the  Hebrews  sliould,  therefore,  be  scrupulous  in  abstaining  from  re- 
flections on  the  dominant  religion,  or,  which  is  the  same  thing,  from  touch- 
ing their  protectors  where  men  of  virtue  are  most  tender. 

In  what  immediately  follows  the  foregoing,  but  especially 
ill  the  closing  paragraph  of  his  letter,  JNIendelssohn  implies  a 
remarkable  compliment  to  Lavater;  and  at  the  same  time,  in 


Lessing.  65 

doing  so,  exhibits  himself  in  the  engaging  aspect  of  a  most 
placable,  most  amiable,  man: 

Private  appeals  from  men  of  worth  I  have  taken  the  Hberty  silently 
to  decline.  The  importunities  of  pedants,  who  arrogated  to  themselvct. 
the  right  of  worrying  me  publicly,  on  account  of  ray  religious  principles, 
I  conceived  myself  justified  in  treating  with  contempt.  But  the  solenui 
conjuration  of  a  Lavater  demands,  at  any  rate,  this  public  avowal  of  my 
sentiments,  lest  too  pertinacious  a  silence  shonld  be  construed  into  disre- 
gard, or  into  acquiescence. 

...  I  have  now  slated  to  you  the  reasons  why  I  so  earnestly  wish  to 
have  no  more  to  do  with  religious  controversy.  .  .  If  yon  should  prove 
peremptory,  I  must  lay  aside  my  scruples  and  come  to  a  resolution  of 
publisliing,  in  a  counter-inquiry,  my  thoughts,  both  on  Mr.  Bonnet's  work 
and  on  ihe  cause  which  he  vindicates.  But  I  hope  you  will  exonerate 
me  from  this  irksome  task,  and  rather  give  me  leave  to  withdraw  to  that 
state  of  quietude  which  is  more  congenial  to  my  disposition.  Place  your- 
self in  my  situation;  take  my  view  of  circumstances,  not  yours,  and  you 
will  no  longer  strive  against  my  reluctance. 

I  am,  with  most  perfect  respect,  yours  sincerely, 

MosES  Mendelssohn. 
Beklix,  the  12th  of  December,  1769. 

The  softness,  the  sweetness,  the  blandness,  the  ripeness, 
the  widene.ss,  of  wisdom  attributed  by  Lessing  to  his  Nathan, 
are  all  present,  express  or  implicit,  in  this  letter  of  Mendels- 
sohn to  Lavater.  When,  now,  it  is  considered  that  Lessing 
and  Mendelssohn  were  not  only  contemporaries  but  fellow- 
countrymen,  and  not  only  fellow-countrymen  but  dwellers  in 
the  same  city,  and  not  only  dwellers  in  the  same  city  but 
intimate  personal  friends,  the  inference  is  easy,  is  inevitable, 
that  the  dramatist,  for  the  conception  of  the  leading  person- 
age of  his  plot  and  for  the  sentiments  which  that  personage 
i.s  made  to  utter,  must  have  owed  every  thing  almost  to  the 
example  that  lived  before  him  and  to  the  oracle  that  daily 
spoke  with  him,  in  the  gentle  and  saintly  Hebrew  sage,  Moses 
Mendelssohn.  It  is  touching  to  know  that  a  few  years  after 
Xathnn,  the  Wise  appeared,  the  memory  of  its  author,  M'ho 
liad  meantime  died,  was  defended  against  the  charge  of 
Spinozism  [Pantheism]  by  Mendelssohn,  surviving  him — in  a 
letter  wliich  was  considered  a  triumphant   vindication,  but 


66  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

the  composition  of  which,  in  its  drain  upon  the  writer's  vital 
finergies,  not  improbably  cost  him  his  life.  There  is,  in 
every  case,  a  limit  to  human  perfection,  and  some  share,  it  is 
said,  of  the  unfavorable  effect  on  Mendelssohn's  health,  was 
due  to  mortification  on  his  part,  arising  from  its  being 
made  to  appear  that  his  real  acquaintance  with  Spinoza's 
works  Avas  disgracefully  less  than  he  had  virtually  claimed 
it  to  be. 

The  apparent  by-path  thus  pursued,  of  allusion  to  Moses 
Mendelssohn  with  illustration  of  his  character  and  genius, 
has  led  us,  a  little  blindly,  perhaps,  but  not  indirectly,  on  our 
way  to  the  comprehension  of  Lessing's  Nathan  the  Wise; 
which  great  and  fruitful  dramatic  work  we  may  now,  thus 
prepared,  more  advantageously  consider. 

The  story  of  the  play  is  as  follows:  Saladin,  with  head- 
quarters at  Jerusalem,  is  in  want  of  money.  It  is  suggested 
to  him  that  Nathan  is  a  rich  Jew  of  the  city  who  might  be 
squeezed  with  excellent  results  to  the  sultan's  exchequer. 
Nathan  has  just  returned  laden  with  gain  from  a  mercantile 
expedition  to  Babylon.  During  his  absence  from  home,  his 
house  took  fire,  and  his  daughter,  Recha,  an  only  child  (his, 
as  will  transpire,  by  adoption),  was  barely  rescued  from  the 
flames.  The  rescuer  was  an  unknown  young  Knight  Tem- 
plar, a  Christian  captive,  doomed  to  death,  but  reprieved  by 
Saladin  on  account  of  his  resemblance  to  a  beloved  brother 
of  the  sultan's.  Various  scenes  exhibit  the  nugatory  efforts 
made  to  bring  the  mysterious  Templar,  into  communication 
with  Nathan  and  his  house. 

Saladin  and  a  sister  of  his,  Sittah,  play  chess  with  each 
other.  Their  games  are  frequent,  the  sister  always  winning 
largely  from  her  brother.  Secretly  she  reimburses  him. 
Now,  however,  Saladin  is  at  the  very  bottom  of  his  purse. 
Hafi,  treasurer  to  the  sultan,  is  directed  to  borrow  on  his  be- 
half ;  and  it  is  the  sister,  Sittah,  who  suggests  the  treasui'es 
of  "  Nathan  the  rich  "  as  an  available  resource.  Hafi,  who 
is  fast  friend  to  Nathan  (the  two  had  long  been  in  the  habit, 
as,  by  the  way,  were  Lessing  and  Mendelssohn,  of  playing 


Lesslng.  67 

chess  together),  Hafi,   we   say,   talks  off,   in    the  following 
strain  : 

Haji.  In  case  of  need  he'll  lend  you  merchandise, 
But  money,  money,  never.     He's  a  Jew, 
There  are  but  few  such  ;  he  has  understanding, 
Knows  life,  phiys  chess;  but  is  in  bad  notorious 
Above  his  brethren,  as  he  is  in  good. 
On  him  rely  not.     To  the  poor,  indeed, 
He  vies,  perhaps,  with  Saladin  in  giving : 
Tho'  he  distributes  less,  he  gives  as  freely, 
As  silentl}',  as  nobly,  to  Jew,  Christian, 
Mahometan,  or  Parsee — 'tis  all  one. 

Hard  pressed  for  reasons,  Hafi  is  reduced  to  talk  a  little, 
as  it  were  against  his  old  friend: 

HaJi.  Ave,  there  peeps  out  the  Jew, 

The  ordinary  Jew.     Believe  me,  prince, 
He's  jealous,  really  envious  of  your  giving. 
To  earn  God's  favor  seems  his  very  business. 
He  lends  not,  that  he  may  always  have  to  give. 
The  law  commandeth  mercy,  not  compliance: 
And  thus  for  mercy's  sake  he's  uncomplying. 
'Tis  true,  I  am  not  now  on  the  best  terms 
With  Nathan,  but,  I  must  entreat  you,  think  not 
Tliat  therefore  I  wouJd  do  injustice  to  him. 
He's  good  in  every  thing ;  but  not  in  that — 
Only  in  that.     I'll  knock  at  other  doors. 

Nathan,  in  due  course,  contrives  to  get  an  interview  with 
the  Templar,  and  wins  on  the  loth  confidence  of  that  suspi- 
cious man.  The  two,  recognizing  each  in  the  other  a  soul 
superior  to  prejudice  of  race  or  of  creed,  shake  hands  in 
fellowship. 

But  Nathan  is  suddenly  summoned  to  audience  with  the 
suhan.  He  has  not  yet  gone,  when  he  meets  Hafi.  Hafi, 
conscious  to  himself  of  the  sultan's  purpose  with  Nathan, 
gives  the  latter  warning,  at  first  in  parable,  but  at  length 
plainly,     "  And  is  that  all?"  Nathan  composedly  replies. 

The  Templar  calling  at  Nathan's  house  while  Nalhnn  is 
with  the  sultan,  Recha  gets  her  coveted  chance  to  thank  the 
man  who  plucked  her  from  the  flames.     He  gives  her  scant 


68  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


immediate  satisfaction  in  re]ily,  but  inwardly  he  is  perturbed 
by  her  beauty  and  charm.  The  two,  indeed,  fall  in  love  with 
each  other. 

The  true  climax  of  interest  and  power  in  this  drama  is  not 
in  any  action  represented,  but  in  a  certain  dialogue  reported — 
the  dialogue,  namely,  occurring  in  that  interview  to  which 
Nathan  was  summoned  by  Saladin.  That  something  said, 
and  not  any  thing  done,  should  mark  the  culminating  point 
of  Nathan  the  Wise,  sets  off  the  play  as  belonging  to  the 
class  of  those  fitted  rather  for  the  closet  than  for  the  stage. 
The  author  was  more  naturally  a  didactic  than  a  dramatic 
poet,  a  teacher  than  an  artist.  Certainly  Nathan  the  Wise 
inculcates  a  lesson  instead  of  delineating  life.  With  this 
character  of  the  piece,  Lessing's  purpose  in  writing  it  corre- 
sponded. His  directly  and  avowedly  projjagandist  the- 
ologic  writings  had  been  interdicted;  he  would  try,  he 
said,  whether  he  might  do  his  teaching  on  the  stage.  JVa- 
than  the  Wise  was  his  experiment.  His  experiment  suc- 
ceeded ;  the  success,  however,  the  writer  himself  did  not 
live  to  enjoy.  The  kernel  of  the  teaching  intended  is  con- 
tained in  the  scene  now  to  be  given,  in  which  Nathan  talks 
with  Saladin.  Highly  anachronistic,  and  hirfily  out  of  char- 
acter for  the  persons  conversing,  but  highly  interesting,  and 
highly  in  character  for  its  German  author,  is  the  conversation, 
abridged  out  of  W.  Taylor's  translation,  as  follows: 

Sa!.  Since  j^ou  are  a  man  so  wise,  tell  me  which  law, 
Which  faith,  appears  to  you  the  better? 
Nath.  Sultan, 

T  am  a  Jew. 

Sal.  And  I  a  Mussulman  ; 

The  Christian  stands  between  us.     Of  these  three 

Religions  only  one  can  be  the  true. 

A  man  like  you  remains  not  just  where  birth 

Has  chanced  to  cast  him,  or,  if  he  remains  there. 

Does  it  from  insight,  choice,  from  grounds  of  preference. 

Share  then  with  me  j'our  insight — let  me  hear 

The  grounds  of  preference,  wliicli  I  have  wanted 

The  leisure  to  examine — learn  the  choice 

These  grounds  have  motived,  that  it  may  be  mine. 


JLessing.  69 

In  confidence  I  ask  it.     How  you  startle, 

And  weigh  me  with  yonr  eye!     It  may  well  be 

I'm  the  first  sultan,  to  whom  this  caprice 

Methinks  not  quite  unworthy  of  a  sultan, 

Has  yet  occurred.     Am  I  not?     Speak,  then — speak. 

Or  do  you,  to  collect  yourself,  desire 

Some  moments  of  delay — I  give  them  you — 

(Whether  she's  listening  ? — I  must  know  of  her 

If  I've  done  right.)     Reflect — I'll  soon  return — 

\_Saladin  -stfjis  info  the  room  to  lohich  Siltah  had  retired.^ 

The  reader  will  not  fail  to  note  the  sense  of  awkwardness 
experienced  by  the  dramatist  himself,  in  making  Saladin 
enter  on  such  a  course  of  conversation;  neither  the  awkward- 
ness, nor  the  sense  of  it  in  the  author,  is  snccessfully  dis- 
guised. It  seems,  too,  an  odd  device  to  have  Sittali  play  the 
needless  part  of  eavesdropper  to  this  interview. 

Nathan  seizes  his  opportunity  to  soliloquize  in  preparation 
of  himself — and  of    Lessing's  readers — for  the  turn  he  will 
give  to  his  reply.     His  reply  is  in  the  form  of  a  story,  a  story  _ 
not  original  with  Lessing,  but  borrowed  l)y  him  from  Boc-// 
caccio,  and  now  told,  through  Nathan,  as  follows:  ',/ 

Natlian.  lu  days  of  yore,  there  dwelt  in  east  a  man, 
Who  from  a  valued  hand  receiv'd  a  ring 
Of  endless  worth  :  tlie  stone  of  it  an  opal, 
That  siiot  an  ever-changing  tint;  moreovfr. 
It  liad  the  hidden  virtue  him  to  render 
Of  God  and  man  belov'd,  who  in  this  view 
And  this  persuasion  wore  it.     Was  it  strange 
The  eastern  man  ne'er  drew  it  off"  his  finger, 
And  studiously  provided  to  secure  it 
Forever  to  his  house.     Thus — He  bequeath'd  it: 
First,  to  the  most  beloved  of  his  sons, 
Ordain'd  that  he  again  siiould  leave  the  ring 
To  the  most  dear  among  his  children — and 
That  without  heeding  birth,  \X\g  favorite  son, 
In  virtue  of  the  ring  alone,  should  always 
Remain  the  lord  of  the  house — you  iiear  me,  sultan  i 
Sal.  I  understand  thee — on. 
Kal.li.  From  son  to  son. 

At  length  this  ring  descended  to  a  fatlier. 


^0  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Who  had  three  sons,  ahke  obedient  to  him ; 
Whom  therefore  he  could  not  but  love  alike. 

Death  approach'd, 

And  the  good  fatlier,  sore  embarrass'd,  .  .  .  seuds 
In  secret  to  a  jeweller,  of  whom, 
Upon  the  model  of  the  real  ring, 
He  might  bespeak  two  others,  and  commanded 
To  spare  nor  cost  nor  pains  to  make  them  like. 
Quite  like,  the  true  one.     This  the  artist  manag'd. 
The  rings  were  brought,  and  e'en  the  father's  eye 
Could  not  distinguish  which  had  been  the  model. 
Quite  overjoj'd  he  summons  all  his  sons. 
Takes  leave  of  each  apart,  on  each  bestows 
His  blessing  and  his  ring,  and  dies — Thou  hear'st  me? 
Sal.  I  hear,  I  hear,  come  finish  with  thy  tale ; 
Is  it  soon  ended? 

Nath.  It  is  ended,  sultan; 

For  all  that  follows  may  be  guessed,  of  course. 
Scarce  is  the  father  dead  ;  each  with  his  ring 
Appears,  and  claims  to  be  the  lord  o'  th'  house. 
Comes  question,  strife,  complaint — all  to  no  end; 
For  the  true  ring  could  no  more  be  distinguish'd 
Than  now  can — tlie  true  faith. 
Sal.  How,  how  ?     Is  that 

To  be  the  answer  to  my  query  ? 

Nath.  No, 

But  it  may  serve  as  my  apology. 
If  I  can't  venture  to  decide  between 
Rings,  which  the  father  got  expressly  made, 
Tliat  they  might  not  be  known  from  one  another. 
Sal.  The  rings — don't  trifle  with  me;  I  must  think 
That  the  religions  which  I  nam'd  can  be 
Distinguish'd,  e'en  to  raiment,  drink,  imd  food. 

Nath.  And  only  not  as  to  their  groimds  of  proof 
Are  not  all  built  alike  on  history. 
Traditional,  or  written?     History 
Must  be  received  on  trust — is  it  not  so? 
In  whom  now  are  we  likeliest  to  put  trust? 
In  our  own  people  surely,  in  those  men 
Whose  blood  we  are,  in  them  who  from  our  childhood 
Have  given  ns  proofs  of  love,  who  ne'er  deceiv'd  us, 
Unless  't  were  wholesomer  to  be  deceiv'd. 
How  can  I  less  believe  in  mv  forefathers 
Tiian  thou  in  thine?     How  can  I  ask  of  thee 
To  own  that  thy  forefathers  falsified 


Lessing.  71 

In  order  to  yield  mine  the  praise  of  truth? 

The  hke  of  Christians. 
Sal.  By  the  hving  God, 

Tlie  man  is  in  the  right,  I  must  be  silent. 
Kath.  Xow  let  us  to  our  rings  return  once  more. 

As  said,  the  sons  complain'd.     Each  to  the  judge 

Swore  from  his  father's  hand  immediately 

To  have  receiv'd  the  ring,  as  was  the  case; 

After  he  had  long  obtain'd  the  father's  promise, 

One  day  to  have  the  ring,  as  also  was. 

The  father,  each  asserted,  could  to  him 

Not  have  been  false,  rather  than  so  suspect 

Of  such  a  father,  willing  as  he  might  be 

With  charity  to  judge  his  brethren,  he 

Of  treacherous  forgery  was  bold  to  accuse  them. 
Sal.  Well,  and  the  judge  ;   I'm  eager  now  to  hear 

What  thou  wilt  make  him  sa}'.     Go  on,  go  on. 
Nath.  The  judge  said.  If  ye  summon  not  the  father 

Before  my  seat,  I  cannot  give  a  sentence. 

Am  I  to  guess  enigmas  ?     Or  expect  ye 

Tiiat  the  true  ring  should  here  unseal  its  lips? 

But  hold — you  tell  me  that  the  real  ring 

Enjoys  the  hidden  power  to  make  the  wearer 

Of  God  and  man  belov'd  ;  let  that  decide. 

Which  of  yon  do  two  brothers  love  the  best? 

You're  silent.     Do  these  love-exciting  rings 

Act  inward  only,  not  without  ?     Does  each 

Love  but  himself?     Ye're  all  deceiv'd  deceivers. 

None  of  your  rings  is  true.     The  real  ring 

Perhaps  is  gone.     To  hide  or  to  supply 

Its  loss,  your  father  order'd  three  for  one. 
Sal.  0  charming,  charming! 
Nath.  And  (the  judge  continued) 

If  you  will  take  advice  in  lieu  of  sentence, 

This  is  my  counsel  to  you,  to  take  up 

The  matter  where  it  stands.     If  each  of  you 

Has  had  a  ring  presented  by  his  father. 

Let  each  believe  his  own  the  real  ring. 

'Tis  possible  the  father  chose  no  longer 

To  tolerate  the  one  ring's  tyranny; 

And  certainly,  as  he  much  lov'd  you  all. 

And  lov'd  you  all  alike,  it  could  not  please  him 

By  favoring  one  to  be  of  two  th'  oppressor. 

Let  each  feel  honor'd  by  this  free  affection 


7'?  Classic  German  Course  in  Englisli. 

Uuwarp'd  of  prejudice;  let  each  endeavor 

To  vie  wiih  both  his  brotliers  in  displaying 

The  virtue  of  his  ring;  assist  its  might 

With  gentleness,  benevolence,  forbearance, 

With  inward  resignation  to  the  godhead, 

And  if  the  virtues  of  the  ring  continue 

To  show  themselves  among  your  children's  children, 

After  a  thousand  thousand  years,  appear 

Before  this  judgment-seat — a  greater  one 

Than  I  shall  sit  upon  it,  and  decide. 

So  spake  the  modest  judge. 
Sal.  ^         God ! 

Nath.  Saladin, 

Feel'st  thou  th3'self  this  wiser  promis'd  man? 
Sal.  I  dust,  I  nothing,  God ! 

[^Precipitates  himself  upon  Nathan  and  takes  hold  of  his  hand, 
which  he  does  not  quit  the  remainder  of  the  scene.1 
Nath.  What  moves  thee,  sultan? 

Sal.  Nathan,  mj-  dearest  Nathan,  't  is  not  j-et 

The  judge's  thousand  thousand  years  are  past. 

His  judgment-seat's  not  mine.     Go,  go,  but  love  me. 

We  do  not  know  whether  the  npshot  of  this  interview  will 
strike  our  readers  as  over-effusive.  In  general,  the  NatJian 
the  Wise  is  remarkable  rather  for  restraint,  than  for  indul- 
gence, of  expression.  Schiller,  even  in  his  most  mature  and 
most  chastened  period  of  culture,  tliat  enjoyed  by  him  under 
the  influence  of  Goethe,  was  far  more  intense  and  extrava- 
gant than  ever  Lessing  permitted  himself  to  be.  The  differ- 
ence in  this  respect  between  the  two  poets  is,  we  think, 
as  much  the  difference  of  the  genuine  from  the  false,  as  it  is 
the  difference  of  true  passion  from  frigidity. 

It  may  not  be  the  fault  of  Lessing  in  his  manner  of  telling 
the  story — the  fault  may  inseparably  inhere  in  the  nature  of 
the  story  itself — but  Xathan's  parable  seems  to  us  not  so  in- 
stantaneously and.  so  strikingly  clear  as  it  ought  to  be,  for 
the  best  effectiveness  of  such  an  illustration.  Does  its  lack  of 
clearness  lie  perhaps  in  its  argumentative  fallacy  ?  Or  does 
the  converse,  rather,  hold,  and  does  the  fallacy  luik  and  hide 
in  the  lack  of  clearness?  The  story  of  the  rings,  with  its 
application,  is,  so  Scherer  points  out,  as  old  as  the  eleventh 


Lessing.  "73 

century  in  Spain.     The  mei-it  of  the  invention  is  accordingly 
no  more  Boccaccio's  than  it  is  Lessing's. 

This  play  of  Lessing's  is  not  a  tragedy,  for  the  conclusion 
is  not  unhappy.  On  the  other  hand,  altogether  happy  it 
cannot  be  called,  either  in  the  sense  of  joy  to  the  personages 
concerned,  or  of  felicitous  contrivance  on  the  part  of  the  au- 
thor. It  turns  out  that  the  Templar  and  Recha  are  brother 
and  sister,  the  Templar  being,  in  fact,  son  to  that  brother  of 
the  sultan  whom  he  so  much  resembled.  No  marriage, 
therefore,  (!au  take  place  between  the  lovers;  and  it  tasks,  if 
it  does  not  overtask,  the  art  of  the  dramatist  to  let  us  down 
from  the  height  of  expectation  to  which  he  has  raised  us, 
without  at  the  same  time  exciting  some  sense,  on  our  part, 
of  ludicrous  fall  in  the  direction  of  pathos.  Such  a  conclu- 
sion is  the  weak  point  of  the  play,  considered  as  a  piece  for 
the  stage.  But  notwithstanding  that  there  are  in  it  some 
passages  of  dialogue  effectively  conducted,  the  JSTathan  the 
Wise  is  substantially  little  else  than  a  vehicle  of  the  au- 
thor's views  as  a  religious  indifferentist.  Schiller,  however, 
exe'-cised  his  practical  skill  to  adapt  this  greatest  boast  of 
the  earlier  German  drama  to  actual  representation,  and  it  is 
yet  occasionally  exhibited.  Then,  as  Mr.  Lowell,  in  his 
brilliant  essay  on  Lessing,  wittily  says,  the  German  public 
"  find  in  seeing  it  represented  a  grave  satisfaction  like  that 
of  subscribing  to  a  monument." 

A  remarkable  sequel  to  the  N'athan  the  Wise,  purporting 
to  be  Lessing's,  appeared  soon  after  that  author's  death.  It 
bore  the  title,  TJie  Monh  of  Libanon.  It  seemed  in  effect  a 
relinquishment,  a  tacit  recantation,  of  the  doctrine  of  the 
earlier  poem.  As  long  as  it  was  supposed  to  be  a  genuine 
posthumous  production  of  the  author  of  Ndthan  the  Wise, 
it  excited  a  vivid  public  interest  and,  among  orthodox 
Christian  critics,  commanded  high  admiration.  With  sin- 
gular fair-mindedness,  W.  Taylor,  the  free-thinking  English 
translator  of  Nathan  the  Wise,  translated  also  this  forged 
afterpiece,  and  translated  it  with  spirit.  It  is  a  drama  of 
full  length,  with  olimpses  in  it  of  real  power. 
4 


Classic  German  Course  in  linglish. 


AVe  submit,  in  specimen,  the  following  extract,  Avhicli 
forms  the  conclusion  to  the  iirst  act  of  The  Monk  of  Liha- 
noi).  Saladin  lies  dying.  His  conscience  disturbing  him, 
he  has  sent  for  Nathan.  Nathan  is  unable  to  medicine  his 
malady.  The  unhappy  sultan  passes  into  delirium.  We 
begin  at  the  point  of  this  transition  in  Saladin's  mental 
state : 

Sal.  .  .  .  Then  die,  die,  Saladin !  thy  lot 

Be  heaven  or  hell,  or  everlasting  nothing  ; 

Die,  die,  for  here  'tis  darkness  all.     Thy  road 

Is  yonder,  over  graves — o'er  slaughter-fields. 

Thick-sown  with  skulls  of  men — well  moistened,  too, 

With  human  gore.     Wlio  was  the  sower  here  ? 

Who  with  his  sabre  ploughed  the  reeking  soil? 

Who? 
Nath.  Saladin,  what  ails  thee,  Saladin  ? 

Sal  I,  I,  'twas  I,  the  valorous  Saladin, 

'Twas  I  who  mowed  these  heaps  of  dead — 
Nath.  My  Sultan, 

Do  recollect  thyself. 
Sal.  Ha  !  now  I  stand 

In  blood  up  to  my  girdle.     'Twas  well  fought, 

My  warriors  nobly  slaughtered — Bury  them. 

For  fear  their  God  sliould  see  tiiem,  and  revenge 

On  us  their  blood. 
Nath.  Dost  thou  know  me  no  longer? 

God,  God,  have  pity  on  him  I 
Sal  What  of  pity  ? 

Behold  in  me  the  mighty  Saladin, 

The  conqueror  of  the  world.     The  East  is  his. 

Down  witli  your  arms,  or  die! 
Ndih.  Cj&nst  thou  not  know 

Thy  Natlian  any  longer  ? 
Sal.  Get  thee  gone. 

I  will  not  deal  with  thee,  Jew,  usurer,  cheat ; 

Hence  with  thy  ware,  'tis  trash  !  sell,  sell  to  fools — 

Avauntl    Why  dost  thou  weep?  What  wouldst  thou  have? 
Nath.  Oil !  this  is  horrible. 
Sal.  Ay,  horrible. 

I  did  not  kill  them.     Dost  thou  claim  of  me 

Thy  children? 
Nath.  God! 

Sal.  Do  bury  tliem  still  deeper  ; 


Lessing.  75 

Look,  there  peeps  out  a  skull ;  In  with  it ! 
Xath.  O 

Wiiat  a  delirium  tliis  ! 
Sal.  Up!   up!   we  storm  it — 

Forward,  my  brothers,  brisk,  and  down  witli  them — 

The  dogs  are  yielding !     On,  on,  we  shall  have  it  : 

Mine  is  Jerusalem  !     Damascus  mine  ! 

Mine  is  all  Syria ! 
Natlx.  Teach  me.  Lord,  to  think 

That  T  must  die. 
Sill.  What's  all  yon  howling  for  ? 

Give  quarter  now;  and  offer  up  to  God 

A  tenth  of  all  the  booty.     There  a  mosk, 

And  here  a  school,  and  there  an  hospital 

Shall  be  erected.     We  sluill  need  them — 

[Siltah  comes  in.] 
Xatk.  Sittah  I 

0  my  dear  Sittah! 
Sill.  Will  she  not?    She  shall. 

Will  Richard  not?    He  must — 
Sit.  What  means  this,  Nathan  ? 

-V((///.   Alas,  thou  hear'st  thj"  brother  is  delirious. 
Si.t.  My  Saladin  delirious  ?     God  ! 
Sal.  Keep  back — 

Along  this  narrow  footpath  climbs  the  way 

Into  the  fortress.     They  are  all  asleep. 

Hush!  follow  me  in  stillness,  we  shall  manage 

To  take  it  by  surprise — hush  ! 
Sit.  [also  gently'].  Saladin 

Is  for  to-day  too  wearj'  for  new  toil. 

What  if  he  should  repose  a  little  hour 

Under  the  shade,  and  then  with  fresher  strength 

Assail  the  fortress  ? 
Sal.  Ay,  I  will,  I  will ; 

Keep  watch  upon  your  posts,  my  comrades  all, 

Lest  they  should  fall  upon  us. 
Sit.  We  are  going. 

Sal.  Mind,  in  an  liour  or  so  I  shall  be  walking. 

The  foregoing  almost  suggests  the  famous  prison  scene 
between  the  seducer  and  his   victim  in  Goethe's  "Faust." 

The  author  of  The  3Tonk  of  Lihanon  was  an  estimable  min- 
ister, by  the  name  of  Pfranger,  court-preacher  in  Meiningen. 
Exactly  what  measure  of  responsibility  was  liis  for  the  moral 
offense  involved  in  a  literary  forgery,  wo  have  not  found  the 


76  Classic  Germ (171  Course  in  MigUsh. 

means  of  making  up  an  opinion.  Readers  of  ours  who  may 
liap23en  to  have  access  to  Tayloi-'s  Historic  /Sarvei/  of  Ger- 
man Poetry  will  do  well  to  read  the  whole  spurious  play,  in 
sequel  and  contrast  to  the  Natluvi  the  Wise.  They  will  find 
it  refreshingly  positive  in  conviction,  and  vigorously,  as  well 
as  loyally.  Christian. 

Besides  Lessing's  Nathan  the  Wise,  two  other  plays  of 
Lessing,  the  Emilia  Galotti,  a  trngedy,  and  the  Minna  von 
-Barnhelm,  a  comedy,  still  form  a  part  of  the  regular  stock 
of  the  German  theatres.  This  is  not  true,  we  believe,  of  any 
dramatic  production  whatever  of  Klopstock's.  Lessing's 
wish  for  himself,  expressed  in  liis  celebrated  epigram  on 
Klopstock,  and  his  bold  thrust  at  that  poet,  find  thus,  in  a 
manner,  their  fulfillment: 

A  Klopstock  who  not  warm  in  lauding  ? 

In  reading,  every  body  ?     Nay. 
"We,  for  a  little  less  applauding, 
\  And  reading  somewliat  busier,  pray. 

I  And  there  had  been  a  day  when  the  epigrammatist  himself 
undertook  a  translation  into  the  Latin  of  Klopstock's  Mes- 
siah 1  The  foregoing  epigram  may  be  taken  as  a  fair 
specimen  of  Lessing's  skill  in  this  kind  of  writing. 

We  found  it  natural  and  convenient  to  associate  his  friend 
Moses  Mendelssohn  with  Lessing  considered  as  dramatist. 
With  Lessing  now  to  be  considered  as  critic,  it  will  be  not 
•^  less  opportune  to  assocjate  Nicolai,  a  man  of  letters,  who 
was  friend  at  once  of  Lessing  and  of  Mendelssohn.  Except  in 
some  such  incidental  manner  as  this,  we  should,  for  want  of 
room,  be  unable  to  notice  Nicolai  at  all  ;  and  he  is  still 
prominent  in  the  literary  histor}'-,  if  no  longer  in  the  litera- 
ture, of  Germany.  How  prominent  once  in  German  litera- 
ture he  was,  may  be  guessed  from  the  fact  that  Queen 
Catherine  of  Russia,  in  royal  token  of  appreciation  for  one 
of  his  books,  forwarded  a  gold  medal  to  the  author,  and, 
compliment  perhaps  more  significant  still,  an  autograph  letter 
bidding  him  send  her  every  volume  he  should  write.  Dur- 
ing a   considerable  interval,  he   was  heard   and    heeded    as 


Lessing.  7 1 

literary  dictator  in  Germany.  His  misfortune  was  that  he 
kept  on  swaying  his  sceptre,  after  his  sceptre  had  become  a 
mark  for  hiughter  instead  of  for  awe. 

Christoph  Friedrich  Nicohii  edited,  from  1765  to  about  the 
close  of  the  century,  a  periodical  of  literature  and  criticism, 
called  tlie  Universal  German  Library.  When  it  is  consid- 
ered how  important  has  been  the  part  played  by  periodical 
literary  organs  in  tlie  literary  history  of  Germany,  when  it 
is  considered  further  that  such  authors  as  Lessing,  as  Wie- 
land,  as  Schiller,  each  in  his  turn,  tried  his  hand  at  editing  a 
literary  periodical  of  his  own,  and  when,  finally,  it  is  con- 
sidered that  the  Universal  German  Library  was,  on  the 
Avhole,  greater,  more  influential,  than  any  other  German  pub- 
lication of  its  kind,  some  just  idea  may  be  formed  of  the 
merit  of  Nicolai  for  his  achievements  in  this  line  of  editor- 
ship. Nicolai's  collaboration  with  Lessing  was  chiefly  in  a 
))eriodical  conducted  by  the  latter,  to  which,  in  the  event, 
Kicolai's  serial  succeeded. 

This  periodical  of  Nicolai's,  the  Universal  German 
Library,  was  to  Germany  something  like  what,  a  few  years 
earlier,  the  Encydopcedia  was  to  France.  It  was  the  Ger- 
man organ  of  "  enlightenment."  It  became  the  favorite 
vehicle  for  the  ideas  of  the  "  ])hilosophers,"  so-called,  of 
Germany.  It  pleaded  the  cause  of  intellectual,  of  spiritual, 
freedom.  It  flouted  authority  in  religion;  it  laughed  at  nar- 
rowness, at  sensationalism,  in  literature.  It  had  the  merit, 
and  it  had  the  demerit,  of  refusing  to  see  things  in  any  other 
light  than  the  light  of  "  common  sense."  It  accordingly 
saw  clearly  enough,  but  it  looked  between  blinders,  and  it 
did  not  see  far  ahead.  The  Universal  German  Library, 
however,  as  compared  with  the  French  Kncyclopmdia,  its 
forerunner,  was  inore  moderate,  less  hostile  at  heart  to  the 
interests  of  true  religion.  It  was  also  less  formidable  than 
,the  Encydopcedia — in  projiortion  as  Nicolai,  editor  of  the 
one.  was  a  less  redoubtable  man  than  Diderot,  editor  of  the 
other. 

We  need   not  give  a  list    of  Nicolai's  books,  whiih  were 


78  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

in  number  considerable ;  for,  though  not  wanting  in  wit, 
they  are  no  longer  read.  To  this  remark,  his  Anecdotes  of 
Frederick  the  Great  is  perhaps  an  exception.  That  book  of 
his  which  so  pleased  her  celebrated  majesty  of  Russia,  was 
entitled,  The  Life  and  Opinions  of  Master  Sebaldus  Noth- 
anker.  This  is  still  readable,  though  not  read.  It  is  a  satire 
aimed  against  ecclesiasticism. 

Nicolai,  as  has  been  said,  outlived  his  own  fame  and  in- 
fluence. He  failed  to  recognize  what  was  meant  by  the  ad- 
vent on  the  field  of  German  letters  of  such  men  as  Herder, 
Goethe,  Schiller,  and  he  frittered  away  his  own  literary  credit 
in  peevish  efforts  to  disparage  theirs.  The  result  has  been 
to  leave  Nicolai  fixed  in  the  stocks  for  posterity  to  gaze  at  as 
a  warning  example  of  purblind  literary  bigotry.  He  de- 
served better  of  himself,  and  he  perhaps  still  deserves  better 
of  his  fellow-men. 

Lessing's  Laocoon  had,  as  it  were,  a  merely  casual  origin. 
It  never  was  finished,  and  what  was  written  was  written 
very  informally.  But  life  was  in  it — such  life  that  it  could 
not  die. 

Winckelmann  had  just  published  his  memorable  work  on 
Ancient  Art.  An  incidental  remark  of  his  on  the  marble 
group  of  the  Laocoon,  in  comparison  with  the  famous  de- 
scription by  Virgil,  excited  doubt  and  then  dissent  in  the 
ever-vigilant  and  ever-active  mind  of  Lessing.  His  Z«ocor>/^, 
so  entitled  in  allusion  to  this  its  origin,  was  the  remarkable 
result.  We  take  our  first  extract  from  the  opening  division 
or  chapter : 

The  universal  and  principal  characteristic  of  the  Greek  master- 
pieces in  painting  and  in  sculpture,  according  to  Herr  Winckelmann,  is  a 
noble  simplicity  and  a  quiet  grandeur,  as  well  in  the  attitude  as  in  the  ex- 
pression. "As  the  depth  of  the  sea,"  he  says,  "  remains  forever  quiet, 
however  the  surface  may  rage,  so  the  expression,  in  the  figures  of  tlie 
Greeks,  discovers,  in  the  midst  of  passion,  a  great  and  calm  soul. 

"Tliis  soul  plants  itself  iu  tlie  face  of  the  [sculptured]  Laocoon  and  not 
in  the  face  alone,  under  the  most  vehement  suffering.  .  .  .  He  raises  no 
sucl)  fearful  cry  as  Yirgil  sings  of  his  Laocoon.  Laocoon  [in  the  sculpt- 
ure] sulTers,  but  he  suffers  like  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles." 


Lessing.  79 

It  is  scarcely  to  be  wondered  at  that  Winckelmaiin's  refer- 
ence to  Virgil,  but  especially  his  reference  to  Philoctetes, 
should  have  provoked  challenge  from  Lessing.     Lessing  says: 

I  confess,  the  dcprecialiug  side-glance  which  lie  [Wiiickelmauu]  throws 
at  Virgil,  first  caused  me  to  dbubl;  and  tlieii  the  comparison  with 
Pliiloctetes. 

"Laocooii  sufEers  like  the  Philoctetes  of  Sophocles."  How  does  this 
character  suffer?  It  is  singular  that  his  suffering  should  have  left  such  a 
different  impression  upon  our  minds.  The  complaints,  the  screams,  the 
wild  execrations  with  wliicli  his  pain  filled  the  camp,  interrupting  llie 
sacrifices  and  all  solemn  acts,  sounded  not  less  terribly  through  the 
desert  island.  They  were  the  cause  of  his  being  banished  thither.  What 
tones  of  impatience,  of  misery,  of  despair  1  Tiie  poet  made  the  theatre 
resound  with  his  imitation  of  them. 

Lessing  agrees  with  Winckelmann  that  the  sculptor's 
Laocoon  does  not  exhibit  the  violent  demonstration  of  pain 
which  might  have  been  expected.  He  agrees  further  with 
Winckelmann  that  the  artist's  moderation  was  wise.  As 
to  why  it  was  wise,  he  differs  with  Winckelmann.  Vehement 
expression  under  bodily  pain,  he  contends,  is  perfectly  nat- 
ural even  for  heroes.     He  goes  to  Homer  for  proof  : 

Homer's  wounded  warriors  fall,  not  seldom,  with  a  cry  to  the  ground. 
.  .  .  Notwithstanding  that  Homer  elevates  his  heroes  so  far  above  human 
nature  in  some  things,  they  always  remain  true  to  it  when  it  comes  to 
the  feeling  of  pain  or  affront,  and  to  the  expression  of  that  feeling  by 
cries  or  tears,  or  by  railing.  In  their  deeds  they  are  beings  of  a  higher 
order ;  but  in  their  sensations  they  are  vei-itable  men. 

If,  by  this  time,  some  of  our  readers  are  thinking  that  the 
standard  of  heroic  fortitude,  under  suffering  must  be  dif- 
ferent for  Germans  (as  well  as  for  Greek)  from  that  which 
generally  holds  for  Englishmen  and  Americans,  we  cannot 
say  that  they  are  wrong.  Robert  Hall,  after  a  paroxysm  of 
exquisite  anguish  from  spinal  disease,  says,  "  (),  I  suffered 
terribly,  but  I  did  not  complain  while  I  was  suffering,  did  I  ? 
Did  I  complain?"  Goethe,  in  sickness,- cried  out  so  with 
violent  pain  that  the  guard  at  the  gate  of  the  city  heard 
him.     And  Goethe  is  praised  for  remarkable  self-control. 

The  Greek  tragedists  also,  Lessing  makes  his  witnesses, 


80  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

taking  occasion  to  have,  by  the  way,  his  slant  at  the  French 
teachers  of  false,  artificial  decorum  in  literature: 

It  is  worthy  of  note,  that  an.ong  the  few  tragedies  that  have  come  down 
to  us  from  antiquity,  there  are  two  in  wliioh  bodily  pain  constitutes  not 
tlie  least  part  of  the  misery  with  which  the  hero  suffers;  the  Fhilockle.-i 
and  the  Ikying  Hercules.  Tlie  latter,  also,  like  the  former,  is  represented 
by  Sophocles  as  wailing,  moaning,  weeping,  and  crying.  Thanks  to  our 
decent  neighbors  [the  French],  those  masters  of  propriety,  a  howling 
Philoctetes,  a  crying  Hercules,  would  now  be  most  ridiculous  and  intoler- 
able characters  on  the  stage. 

Lessing's  induction  done,  he  comes  to  his  inference.  He 
says  : 

And  now  I  come  to  my  inference.  If  it  is  true  that  cries,  under  the 
infliction  of  bodily  pain — more  especially  according  to  the  old  Greek  view 
of  the  subject — are  perfectly  consistent  with  greatness  of  soul;  tlien  the 
desire  of  representing  such  a  soul  cannot  be  the  reason  why  the  artist 
was  nevertheless  unwilling  to  imitate  those  cries  in  his  marble.  On  the 
contrary,  there  must  be  some  other  reason  why,  in  this  particular,  he  de- 
parts from  his  rival,  the  poet,  who  expresses  these  cries  with  the  most 
deliberate  inteniiou. 

So  much  for  Lessing's  first  chapter,  condensed. 

In  his  second  chapter,  Lessing  proceeds  to  a  quest  of  that 
true  reason  for  the  sculptor's  abstaining  from  violent  expres- 
sion in  marble,  which  he  thinks  Winckelmann  had  missed. 
Coutrasting  ancient  with  modern  art,  he  says  : 

"  Who  would  wish  to  paint  thee,  since  no  one  likes  to  look  upon  thee?  " 
said  the  ancient  epigrammatist,  of  a  very  deformed  person.  Many  a 
modern  artist  would  say :  "  Be  thou  as  deformed  as  it  is  possible  to  be,  I 
will  paint  thee  notwithstanding.  Though  no  one  loves  to  look  upon  thee, 
yet  shall  men  look  with  pleasure  on  my  painting,  not  because  it  represents 
thee,  but  as  a  proof  of  my  art  which  knows  how  to  copy  sucli  a  scare- 
crow so  accurately." 

Froni  certain  discursive  illustrations  of  his  point  he  re- 
turns to  say,  with  the  most  admirably  suggestive  criticism: 

But  I  wander  out  of  my  way.  I  only  wished  to  establish  this  point, 
that,  with  the  ancients,  beauty  was  the  liighesl  law  of  the  plastic  arts. 

And,  this  point  established,  it  follows  necessarily  that  every  thing 
else,  to  which  the  plastic  arts  might  likewise  extend,  must  yield  alto- 


Lessing.  81 

gellier  where  it  was  found  incompatible  with  beauty ;  and  where  it  was 
compatible  witli  beauty  must,  at  least,  be  subordinated  to  that. 

Now,  applying  this  to  the  Laocoon,  we  see  clearly  the  reason  which  I 
am  seeking.  The  master  labored  for  the  highest  beauty  possible  un- 
der the  given  conditions  of  bodily  pain.  Bodily  pain,  in  all  its  deforming 
veliemence,  was  incompatible  with  that  beauty.  It  was  necessary,  there- 
fore, that  he  should  reduce  it — that  he  sliould  soften  cries  into  sighs 
Xot  because  crying  betrays  an  ignoble  soul,  but  because  it  disfigures  the 
countenance  in  a  manner  which  is  disgusting.  Do  but  tear  open  the 
mouth  of  Laocoon,  in  imagination,  and  judge  !  Let  him  scream,  and  see  i 
Before,  it  was  a  creation  which  inspired  compassion,  because  it  united 
pain  with  beauty.  Now,  it  has  become  an  unsightly,  an  abominable 
creation,  from  which  we  are  fain  to  turn  away  our  faces,  because  the 
sight  of  pain  awakens  displeasure,  and  tliat  displeasure  is  not  converted 
into  the  sweet  sentiment  of  pity  by  the  beauty  of  the  suffering  object. 

With  two  additional  extracts  from  this  luminous  and 
illuminating  es.say  of  Lessing's,  we  bring  our  citations  to  a 
close.  The  first  of  the  two  is  found  in  the  third  chapter. 
No  thoughtful  reader  will  fail  to  see  that  in  these  pregnant 
paragraphs  there  speaks  a  consummate  master  of  criticism — 
of  criticism  in  the  highest  and  most  generous  sense  of  that 
word  : 

Since  the  artist  can  use  but  one  moment  of  ever-changing  nature,  and 
the  painter,  more  especially,  can  use  that  moment  only  from  a  single 
point  of  view;  and  since  tlieir  works  are  made,  not  to  be  seen  merely, 
but  to  be  contemplated,  and  to  be  contemplated  repeatedly  and  long,  it  is 
evident  that,  in  the  selection  of  that  single  moment  and  that  single  point 
of  view,  too  much  care  cannot  be  had  to  choose  the  most  fruitful.  But 
only  that  is  fruitful  which  gives  the  imagination  full  play.  The  more 
we  see,  the  more  we  must  be  able  to  imagine,  and  the  more  we  imagine, 
the  more  we  must  think  we  see.  Now,  in  tjie  whole  course  of  a  passion, 
there  is  no  one  moment  which  possesses  this  advantage  in  so  slight  a 
degree  as  the  climax  of  that  passion.  There  is  nothing  beyond  it ;  and 
to  exhibit  to  the  eye  the  uttermost,  is  to  bind  the  wings  of  imagination, 
and  to  compel  iier,  since  she  is  unable  to  exceed  the  sensible  impres 
sion,  to  occupy  herself  wUh  feebler  images,  belovj  that  impression — shunnimj. 
(IS  limitation,  the  visible  fullness  expressed. 

In  the  words  whicli  we  have  italicized,  LessingjUsuill}^  tlio 
embodiment   of   good  sense  and   self-possession,  seems  to  us 
to  run,  for  a  moment,  into  something  very  like  mere  empti- 
4* 


82  Classic  Gerinan  Course  in  English. 

ness  and  quiddity.  Is  not  the  harm  done  by  climax  in  art- 
istic expression  rather  this,  that  it  dulls  the  imagination  by 
leaving  it  nothing  to  add,  than  that  it  foi'ces  the  imagination 
to  employ  itself  with  conceptions  inferior  to  the  climax  al- 
ready expressed  ? 

We  resume  our  interrupted  extract: 

Further,  since  this  single  moment  receives  from  art  an  unchangeable 
duration,  it  should  express  notliiug  that  can  be  conceived  only  as  transient. 
...  La  Metrie,  who  caused  himself  to  be  painted  and  engraved  as  a  second 
Democritus,  laughs  but  the  first  time  he  is  seen.  If  we  look  at  him  often, 
the  philosopher  becomes  a  bufEoon,  and  the  laugh  changes  to  a  grin.  So 
of  cries.  The  violent  pain  which  extorts  the  cry  is  either  soon  relieved,  or 
else  it  destroys  the  sufferer.  Althougli,  therefore,  a  man  of  tlie  greatest 
patience  and  fortitude  may  cry,  he  does  not  cry  unceasingly.  And  it  is  only 
tliis  appearance  of  perpetuity  in  the  material  imitations  of  art,  that  makes 
his  crying  seem  like  feminine  impotence  or  like  cliildish  petulance.  This 
at  least,  the  author  of  the  Laocoon  was  bound  to  avoid,  even  though  the 
act  of  crying  were  not  incompatible  with  beauty,  or  though  his  art  would 
allow  him  to  express  suffering  without  beauty. 

In  the  second  extract,  our  last,  taken  from  his  fourth 
chapter,  Lessing  reaches  his  justification  of  that  descriptive 
pnssage  in  Virgil,  which  Winckelmann  had  impliedly  con- 
demned. He  does  so  by  defining  the  proper  province  of  the 
poet,  that  artist  in  Avords,  as  distinguished  from  the  prov- 
inces of  the  painter  and  the  sculptor,  those  artists  in  color 
and  form.     He  says : 

The  poet  is  not  required  to  concentrate  his  sketch  into  a  single  moment. 
He  can,  if  he  pleases,  take  each  action  at  its  origin  and  carry  it  through  to 
its  termination.  Each  of  those  variations,  wliich  would  cost  the  painter  a 
separate  picture,  costs  him  but  a  single  stroke.  And  though  this  one 
stroke,  in  itself  considered,  might  offend  the  imagination  of  the  hearer,  it 
is  so  well  prepared  by  wliat  preceded,  or  so  qualified  and  compensated 
by  what  follows,  that  it  loses  its  individuality,  and,  taken  in  connection 
with  tlie  rest,  produces  the  most  charming  effect. 

Wlio,  then,  will  reproach  him  [Virgil]?  Who  will  not  rather  confess 
that,  if  the  artist  did  well  not  to  represent  Laocoon  as  crying,  the  great 
poet  did  equallj'  well  to  let  him  cry? 

AVe  wish  we  had  room  for  some  specimen  passages  froin 
Lessing's  essay  on  Tlie  Education  of  the  Human  Race.    This 


Lessing.  83 

little  treatise  is  probably  to  be  regarded  as  the  starting-point, 
indeed  as  the  fountain-head,  of  German  free-thinking  in  the- 
ology. Lessing  was  essentially  a  free-thinker,  not  only  in  the 
good,  but  also  in  the  technical  bad,  sense  of  the  expression. 
There  is  no  sentence  of  Lessing's  more  characteristic  of 
the  man,  as  none  more  universally  familiar  in  quotation, 
than  his  really  proud,  though  formally  humble,  declaration 
contained  in  the  following  words : 

If  God  should  hold  all  truth  inclosed  in  his  right  hand,  and  in  his  left 
only  the'  ever-active  impulse  to  the  pursuit  of  truth,  although  witli  the 
condition  that  I  should  always  and  forever  err,  and  should  say  to  me, 
"Choose!"  I  should  fall  with  submission  upon  iiis  left  hand,  and  say, 
"Father,  give!     Pure  truth  is  for  tliee  alone!  " 

Famous  words,  and  words  Avorthy  of  their  fame  !  But 
surely  they  bespeak,  not  so  much  the  man  who  loves  truth 
supremely,  as  the  man  who  supremely  loves  intellectual 
activity. 


V. 

W  I  E  L  A  N  D, 
1733-1813. 


Of  all  the  most  celebrated  writers  of  Germany,  the  writer 
least  celebrated  among  English  -  speakers  is  undoubtedly 
Wieland,  Equally  undoubted  is  another  curious,  a  seem- 
ingly incongruous,  fact.  Wieland  is  the  author  of  a  poem, 
of  which,  despite  a  certain  grave  inextricable  fault  involved, 
it  may  be  affirmed  that  it  is,  by  eminence,  of  all  the  poetic 
productions  of  German  genius — considerable  in  length  and 
not  dramatic — the  one  poem  best  fitted  to  interest  and  to 
please  the  English-reading  public.  The  singularity  of  the 
case  is  inci-eased  by  the  circumstance,  that  of  this  exceptional 
poem  of  Wieland's  there  exists,  and  there  has  long  existed 
in  English,  a  version  scarcely  less  charming  than  the  charm- 
ing original.  T(j  carry  the  paradox  to  its  height,  tliere  was 
formerly  a  time  when  Wielaixl's  Oberon — for  such  is  the  title 


84  Classic  German  Course  in  JEngllsh. 

of  tlie  poem  to  which  we  refer — was,  through  Sotheby's  trans- 
lation, almost  as  poj^ular  in  England  and  America  as  it  was 
in  Germany. 

The  explanation  is  simple  enough.  Wieland  belongs  in  a 
class  of  writers  whom  the  world,  in  its  progress,  has  left 
somewhat  behind.  He  is  a  little  antiquated  now — like  Klop- 
stock,  and  unlike  Lessing.  The  distinctively  modern,  the 
new,  the  progressive,  spirit  in  literature,  was  not  Wieland's. 
The  order  of  things  that  came  in  with  Goethe  and  Schiller 
was  one  in  which  Wieland  at  length  appeared  out  of  place. 
He  had  the  effect  of  an  anachronism  in  it.  Not  so  with 
Lessing,  by  a  few  years  the  senior  of  Wieland  ;  and  not  so 
with  Herder,  by  a  few  years  Wieland's  junior.  The  differ- 
ence is,  that  it  was  through  Lessing  and  through  Herder 
that  the  new  era  opened,  while  it  was  icith  Wieland  that  the 
new  era  closed. 

But  the  old  era  closed  splendidly  with  Wieland.  He  was 
a  brilliant  man  of  letters;  upon  the  whole,  the  most  brilliant 
mere  man  of  letters  that  Germany  has  ever  produced.  His 
term  of  activity  was  long,  and  it  Avas  fruitful  to  the  end.  He 
became  the  patriarch  of  German  letters — by  universal  accla- 
mation recognized  as  such,  alike  for  the  transcendency  and 
the  seniority  of  his  fame  and  for  the  personal  charm  of  the 
man.  He  was,  in  some  respects,  for  Germany  what  Voltaire 
was  for  France. 

Wieland,  in  fact,  approximated  the  French  type  by  some 
traits  of  his  literary  character.  Like  the  French,  he  studied, 
and  he  achieved,  lightness,  liveliness,  clearness,  grace,  beyond 
any  other  German  of  his  time.  No  German,  unless  it  be 
Heine,  has  in  this  respect  surpassed  him  since.  He  wrote 
for  readers,  and  not  for  himself.  He  wrote  for  readers 
among  people  in  general,  and  not  for  readers  among  schol- 
ars or  specialists  merely. 

We  thus  describe  a  popular  writer,  and  a  popular  writer 
Wieland  was.  But  he  was  popular  rather  by  the  manner 
than  by  the  matter  of  what  he  wrote.  He  was  a  superficial 
man,  with  no  deep  convictions  of  any  sort  to  trouble  liim  — 


Wteland.  85 

or  for  him  to  trouble  the  world  withal.  He  wrote  what 
he  thought  would  please,  and  he  generally  succeeded. 
With  this  success  he  was  satisfied.  Setting  out  as  a 
pietist  of  the  Klopstockian  pattern,  he  ended  by  being  an 
epicurean  after  the  model  of  Voltaire.  He  was  probably 
as  earnest  at  first  as  he  was  at  last,  and  at  last  as  he  was  at 
first. 

Wieland's  literary  genius  blossomed  early.  The  youthful 
piety  which  seemed  to  consecrate  it  commended  Wieland,  as 
the  same  thing  had  commended  Klopstock,  to  the  notice  and 
patronage  of  Bodmer.  Wieland,  in  personal  habits  and 
general  style  of  deportment,  accommodated  himself  better 
than  did  Klopstock  to  the  views  and  feelings  of  Bodmer, 
whose  favored  guest  he  in  his  turn,  like  Klopstock,  became. 
W^ieland  drank  water  instead  of  wine,  and  he  did  not  smoke. 
But  the  illusion,  which  probably  was  as  much  Wieland's 
own  as  it  was  Bodmer's,  did  not  last  long.  Young  Wie- 
land, from  denouncing  Anacreon  and  Anacreontists, 
became  himself  such  in  practice  of  life  that  he  could 
wi"ite  Anacreontic  odes  from  experience  of  his  own.  The 
"  Seraphic"  school — so  called  by  the  German  critic  Gervinus 
— of  Klopstock,  made,  and  no  Avonder,  a  public  auto  da  f'e 
in  Guttingen  of  the  books  of  their  renegade  fellow-disciple, 
Wieland. 

Wieland  was  a  literary  courtier,  and  a  good  one,  some 
time  before  Goethe,  eclipsing  his  precursor,  became  the 
world's  proverb  and  paragon  of  such.  Wieland  began  mak- 
ing little  Weimar  what  it  became  as  centre  and  focus  of 
literary  light;  though  the  chief  glory  belongs,  and  justly 
belongs,  to  Goethe.  At  Weimar,  Wieland  long  continued 
to  live  and  labor,  still  enjoying  a  sufficient,  but  by  no 
means  splendid,  pension  from  the  duke,  after  the  latter's  ar- 
rival at  his  majority  had  brought  the  relation  of  teacher  and 
pupil  to  an  end.  About  Wieland  gathei'cd,  one  after  an- 
other, the  stars  in  that  resplendent  constellation  of  literary 
genius  and  fame  which  has  made  Weimar  "  a  name  for- 
ever" and  a  "Mecca  of  the  mind"  to  all  lovers  of  letters. 


86  Classic  German  Course  in  jEJnglish. 


Wieland,  Goethe,  Herder,  Schiller,  and  we  may  add  Richter 
— though  Richter  never  was  properly  a  resident  of  Weimar 
— shine,  perhaps,  the  brightest,  as  they  shine  with  nearly 
equal  lustre;  but  there  were  brilliant  inferior  names  besides, 
that  we  need  not  here  stay  to  reckon. 

The  attitude  assumed  by  Wieland  toward  the  "  new 
gods  "  who  were  taking  Olympus  by  storm,  under  his  very 
feet,  was  strikingly  different  from  that  which  we  have  al- 
ready described  as  the  attitude  of  Wieland's  contemporary, 
Nicolai.  Like  Nicolai,  Wieland,  too,  to  be  sure,  at  first 
confronted  his  junior  rivals  with  challenge;  but  soon  he 
smilingly  gave  them  his  hand  and  helped  them  gain  their 
seat  on  the  summit. 

The  way  in  which  the  old  order  first  met  the  new 
was,  naturally,  by  encounter  of  Wieland  with  Goethe. 
Wieland  edited  a  periodical,  the  German  Mercury.  In 
this  he  criticized  Goethe.  Goethe  responded  by  a  satir- 
ical farce,  entitled,  Gods,  Heroes,  and  Wieland.  Wieland 
good-naturedly  reviewed  the  farce  in  his  magazine,  and 
praising  it,  over-praising  it,  pronounced  it  a  piece  of  wit 
that  every  body  should  read.  Goethe  was  fairly  beaten. 
He  acknowledged  this  himself.  He  said,  "  Wieland  is  gain- 
ing as  much  in  the  public  estimation  by  the  line  he  takes 
as  I  am  losing."  The  two  became,  outwardly  at  least,  good 
friends. 

The  amount  and  the  variety  of  the  literary  work,  that 
Wieland  did,  was  prodigious.  We  pass  his  other  produc- 
tions, all  of  them,  without  even  giving  their  titles,  to  take 
up  at  once  his  masterpiece,  the  Oberon. 

We  feel  obliged  to  say,  and  to  say  strongly,  in  preface 
to  OUT  exhibition  of  this  poem,  that  the  Oberon  is  not 
free  from  the  blemish  of  things  doubtful  in  ethical  and  in 
aesthetic  propriety.  The  spirit  of  the  verse  is  not  positively 
evil.  There  is  in  the  story  no  intentional,  and  hardly  is 
there  practical,  seduction  to  sin.  Wieland  was  not,  like 
Voltaire,  a  bad-hearted  man.  He  was  not,  like  Goethe,  a 
good-hearted  man  whose  good-heartedness  did  not  stand  in 


Wieland.  87 

the  way  of  his  indulging  himself  freely  to  the  ruinous  cost 
of  others.  Wieland  apparently  became,  in  mature  life,  a 
man  of  unimpeachable  correctness  in  personal  behavior. 
Ilis  writings  were  still  loose,  but  his  looseness  now  Avas  all 
in  his  writings. 

The  things  to  which  we  allude  in  the  Oheron,  and  which 
we  must  pass  with  allusion,  are  touched  as  delicately  in 
phrase  as  the  nature  of  the  case  permitted.  They  are  so 
nearly  innocent  that  at  least  the  sin  is  rather  against  taste 
than  against  morals.  And  they  are  not  mere  wanton  recre- 
ations ill  the  equivocal,  on  the  part  of  the  author.  They 
belong  inseparably  to  the  plan  of  his  jjoem,  a  plan  dictated 
to  the  poet  by  his  subject. 

The  story  in  Oberon  is  the  story  of  a  knight,  Sir  Hiion 
of  Bordeaux,  who  unwittingly  slays  a  son  of  Charlemagne, 
and  is,  by  the  implacable  father,  sentenced  to  do  a  series 
of  imi)Ossible  deeds  in  ransom  of  his  life.  These  impossi- 
ble deeds  he  happily  accomplishes,  with  the  very  impor- 
tant assistance  of  Oberon  and  Titania,  king  and  queen  of 
the  fairies,  who  have  themselves  a  momentous  interest  of 
their  own  staked  upon  the  success  and  virtue  of  the  knight. 
For  the  elfin  royal  couple  have,  to  their  great  misery,  be- 
come hopelessly  estranged  from  each  other — Oberon  having 
hastily  bound  himself  by  a  mighty  oath  to  stay  away  from 
his  spouse  until  one  human  pair  should  be,  by  proof  of  ut- 
termost temptation,  found  impregnably  pure  in  chastity  and 
in  mutual  truth.  It  goes  without  the  saying  that  Sir  Hiion, 
and  the  bride  that  he  will  win,  become  the  blameless  twain 
to  bring  Oberon  and  Titania  happily  together  once  more. 
But  this  does  not  result  without  much  remarkable  adventure 
and  mischance  befalling  meantime  both  the  knight  and  the 
fair.  Of  such  varied  experience  on  their  part,  is  made  up  the 
substance  of  the  story  told  in  Oberon. 

Oberon  oj)ens  with  Sir  Hiion  already  far  on  his  way  to 
achieve  the  feats  required  by  vengeful  Charlemagne.  The 
first  chance  encounter  that  he  meets  is  a  happy  one.  It  oc- 
curs in  the  reerion  of  Libanon  in  Asia.     He  IIkm-c  falls  in  with 


Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 


an  old  retainer  of  his  father's  house,  who  is  overjoyed  to  recog- 
nize in  the  handsome  stranger  his  own  youthful  lord.  "She- 
rasmin  "  is  the  shrewd  and  honest  fellow's  name.  Sherasrain, 
loyal  soul,  offers  himself  as  squire  to  Sir  Hiion  for  complet- 
ing the  forlorn  and  distant  errantry  of  the  gallant  knight. 
No  Don  Quixote  is  Sir  Hilon  in  the  representation  of  Wie- 
land,  but  Sherasmin  is  a  kind  of  Sancho  Panza.  The  homely 
humor  of  the  squire  affords  a  wekome  and  a  needed  relief  to 
the  tension  threatened  at  first  in  the  heroic  character  and 
exploit  of  the  knight. 

True  epic  fashion,  Wieland  makes  Sir  Hiion  relate  retro- 
spectively to  Sherasmin  the  incidents  that  led  to  his  setting 
out  on  his  present  quest.  The  final  fierce  sentence  of  Charle- 
magne is  recited  as  follows.  Said  Charlemagne  (we  now 
give  the  text  of  Wieland  in  metrical  translation): 

"  Go  hence  to  Bao;dad ;  in  high  festal  day. 
At  his  round  table  when  the  caliph,  placed 
In  stately  pomp  wiih  splendid  emirs  graced, 
Enjoys  the  banquet,  ranged  in  proud  array, 
Slay  him  who  lies  the  monarch's  left  beside. 
Dash  from  his  headless  trunk  the  purple  tide; 
Then  to  the  right  draw  near,  with  courtly  grace 
The  beauteous  heiress  of  his  throne  embrace. 
And  thrice  witli  public  kiss  salute  her  as  thy  bride. 

"And  while  the  caliph,  at  the  monstrous  scene. 
Such  as  before  ne'er  shocked  a  caliph's  eyes, 
Stares  at  thy  confidence  in  mute  surprise. 
Then,  as  the  Easterns  wont,  with  lowly  mien 
Fall  on  the  earth  before  his  golden  throne, 
And  gain  (a  trifle,  proof  of  love  alone) 
That  it  may  please  him,  gift  of  friend  to  friend. 
Four  of  his  grinders  at  my  bidding  send. 
And  of  his  beard  a  lock  with  silver  hair  o'ergrown. " 

So  much  for  the  occasion  and  the  motive  of  Hiion's 
expedition. 

After  the  first  night  of  bivouac  together.  Sir  Hiion,  who 
has  been  "  on  this  occasion  "  suest  of  Sherasmin,  fares  forth 
with  his  squire  in  a  light-hearted   temper  of  welcome  foi 


Wlelaiid.  89 

fate,    wliich     VVielamI,    througli    Sotheby,    tlius    buoyantly 
descrilies  : 

The  day  awakes;  and  straigiit  from  siuud  repose, 

Fresh  as  the  morn,  our  warrior  gailj'  rose : 

Buckles  his  armor  on ;   while  seen  to  stand 

With  knapsack  on  his  shoulder,  club  in  hand. 

Cheerily  smiles  his  host,  and  forth  toward  Bagdad  goes. 

Therewith  ends  book,  or  canto,  first.  There  are  twelve 
cantos  in  all. 

The  fresh,  bright,  breezy  verse  of  Wieland  is  well  repre- 
sented by  his  English  translator,  William  Sotheby.  Our 
readers  lose  surprisingly  little  by  becoming  acquainted  with 
Oberon  in  this  secondary,  instead  of  the  original,  form.  AV"e 
consider  Sotheby's  rendering  of  Wieland's  Oberon  one  of 
the  most  successful  feats  of  translation  in  verse  that  the 
English  language  contains.  The  transfusion  of  spirit  from 
Wieland  to  Sotheby  is  wonderful.  The  chief  abatement  of 
praise  to  be  made  is,  that  Wieland's  free,  idiomatic,  often 
homely,  expression,  and  the  caprice  of  his  verse,  get  trans- 
posed by  Sotheby  into  a  key  of  somewhat  greater  form  and 
stateliness. 

The  stanza  in  which  Wieland  composed  his  Oberon  is  a 
free  variation  of  that  of  Ariosto  in  the  Orlando  Furioso. 
The  German  original  has  eight  lines  only,  where  the  Englisli 
translation  has  nine.  Wieland  rhymes  irregularly,  and  he 
makes  his  lines  irregular  in  length,  as  the  fit  takes  him. 
Sotheby,  it  will  be  observed,  submits  to  rule,  and  has  one 
mold  for  all  his  stanzas. 

The  tone  of  the  Oberon  is  most  felicitously  chosen,  and  it 
is  maintained  throughout  with  excellent  art.  It  is,  of  course, 
not  the  high  epic.  Homeric,  Wieland  is  here,  rather  than 
Miltonic;  but  he  is  Homeric  in  fluent  ease  and  flexile  grace 
rather  than  in  loftiness  of  occasional  flight.  Still,  Wieland 
can  rise  when  he  chooses  ;  only  he  never  chooses  to  wing  an 
ether  quite  so  high  and  thin  as  that  which  Homer,  when 
sublimest,  reaches.  What  a  pretty,  downward  swoop, 
skimming  the  ground,  of   Wieland's  swallow  muse,  is  in  the 


90  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


last  line  of  tliu  following  ytanza,  the  opening  one  of  canto 

second : 

Tlius  go  the  noble  pair — and  blithe  and  gay 
-  Jouruey  by  siinshiue  and  the  starry  light, 
Three  days  down  Libanon's  romantic  height. 
And  when  the  fervor  of  meridian  day 
Strikes  on  their  heads,  they  seek  some  shadowy  lair 
Where  groves  of  ancient  cedars  cool  the  air; 
While  sweet  around  from  silver  throats  are  heard 
Melodious  songs  from  many  a  beauteous  bird, 
That  pecks  with  wanton  bill  the  travelers'  scattered  fare. 

Various  "  moving  accidents "  which  befall  the  errant 
knight,  we  may  pass  in  silence.  The  momentous  encounter 
is  imminent  now  of  Sir  Hiion  with  Oberon, 

The  apparition  of  the  fairy  king,  drawn  in  a  silver  car  by 
leopards,  is  too  much  for  the  nerves  of  Sherasmin.  Sir 
Hiion  gazes  delighted,  but  Sherasmin  shudders  with  horror. 
The  well-nigh  burlesque  consequence  (Sherasmin  shrieking 
in  terror  to  his  master,  and  therewith  seizing  the  knight's 
horse  by  the  bridle  to  pull  him  after  in  headlong  flight),  is 
thus  described  by  Wieland  : 

"  0,  fly,  sir  !  or  your  life's  not  worth  a  song  !  " 

Sir  Hiion  strives,  indeed,  but  strives  in  vain  ; 

The  old  man  speeds  in  fullest  flight  amain, 

And  after  him  drags  Hiion's  horse  along ; 

O'er  stock  and  stone,  through  bush  and  brake  they  race. 

Nor  hedge  nor  ditch  impedes  their  desperate  pace ; 

Nor  ceased  the  wight  to  scamper,  fear-pursued, 

Till,  clear  from  out  the  compass  of  the  wood. 

They  find  themselves  at  last  amid  an  open  space. 

Oberon  is  not  so  to  be  thwarted.  He  raises  a  tempest, 
which  drives  the  knight,  ignobly  dragged  by  his  flying 
squire,  to  seek  shelter  in  a  convent  met  in  their  course. 
Nuns  and  monks  from  neighboring  closes,  out  that  day  to- 
gether on  a  short  pious  pilgrimage,  are,  at  the  same  moment, 
driven  to  the  same  refuge.  Sherasmin,  without  ceremony  of 
leave-asking,  rushes  incontinently  in,  and  while  the  knight 
tarries  without,  in  better  f ornj  to  beg  admittance,  up  comes 
Oberon,  in  appearance  like  a  boy,  and  works  a  change  which, 


Wieland.  91 

with  its  surprising  sequel,  is  tlius  described  by  Wiebuul. 
A  certain  magic  jtipe  or  horn,  on  which  mucli  depends  in  the 
development  of  the  plot,  is  brought  into  use: 

At  once  the  storm  is  Hed,  serenely  mild 

Heav'n  smiles  around,  bright  raj'S  tiie  sky  adorn, 

While  beauteous  as  an  angel  newly  born 

Beams  in  the  roseate  dayspring,  glow'd  the  child. 

A  lily  stalk  his  graceful  limbs  sustuin'd, 

Ruund  his  smooth  neck  an  ivory  horn  was  chain'd. 

Yet  lovelj'^  as  he  look'd,  on  all  around 

Strange  horror  stole,  for  stern  the  fairy  frown'd, 

And  o'er  each  sadden'd  charm  a  sullen  anger  reign'd. 

He  to  liis  ros}'  lip  the  horn  applies. 
And  breathes  enchanting  tones  of  fairy  sound: 
At  once  old  Sherasmiu  in  giddy  lound 
Reels  witliout  stop — away  the  spinner  flies, 
■  Seizes  a  hoary  nun  without  a  tooth, 
Wbo  dies  to  dance,  as  if  the  blood  of  youth 
Boil'd  !n  her  veins;  the  old  man  deftly  springs, 
Bounds  like  a  buck,  while  every  caper  flings 
Her  veil  and  gown  in  air,  that  all  laugh  loud  forsooth. 

Cloister  and  convent  burn  with  equal  rage, 
Nor  hoary  hairs,  nor  rank  the  dance  withstand; 
Each  sinner  takes  a  sister  by  the  hand, 
And  in  the  gay  contention  all  engage. 

Meantime  Oberon  talks  graciously  with  the  knight. 
Sherasmin,  too,  he  first  relieves  from  the  necessity  of  dancing, 
and  then  comforts  with  a  most  reviving  draught  from  an 
empty-looking  bowl,  from  which,  lifted  to  his  lips,  flowed 
delicious  wine.  Finally,  the  fairy  monarch  presents  both 
bowl  and  horn  to  Hiion,  with  explanation  and  with  solenni 
a<l  jurat  ion,  as  follows  : 

"  Does  but  its  snail-like  spiral  hollow  sing 
A  lovely  note  soft  swell'd  with  gentle  breath. 
Though  thousand  warriors  threaten  instant  death, 
And  with  advancing  weapons  round  curing; 
Then,  as  thou  late  liast  seen,  in  restless  dance 
All,  all  must  spin,  and  every  sword  nml  Ltioc 


92  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


Fall  with  the  exhausted  warriors  to  the  ground. 

But  if  thou  peal  it  with  impatient  sound, 

I  at  thy  call  appear,  more  swift  than  lightning  glance. 

"  If,  at  that  time,  my  path  from  thine  recede 

Far  as  the  world,  if  boundless  space  between, 

I  at  thy  side  am  in  a  moment  seen ; 

Yet,  oil!  reserve  thy  call  for  utmost  need; 

And  take  this  bowl,  whose  golden  round  contains 

Pure  wine,  self-springing  from  a  thousand  veins. 

If  touch'd  by  guileless  mouth ;  but  if  base  lip 

Dare  with  rash  taste  the  conscions  nectar  sip, 

'Tis  void,  and  burns  the  wretch  with  guilt-avenging  pains!" 

The  knight  with  grateful  hand  each  wonder  takes. 

Pledge  of  the  favor  of  his  fairy  friend ; 

And  when  he  sees  the  rays  of  morn  ascend, 

And  paint  the  purple  clouds  with  golden  flakes. 

He  asks  the  way  to  Bagdad's  destin'd  wall — 

"Hence  I  "  cries  the  dwarf,  "where  fame  and  honor  call: 

And,  oh !  may  never  Oberon  behold 

That  dreadful  hour,  when  Hiion,  good  and  bold. 

May  yield  to  deeds  of  shame,  that  need  his  soul  appal! 

"Not  that  thy  heart  and  spirit  I  mistrust; 

But,  ah!  thou  art  a  child  of  Adam's  kind, 

Form'd  of  soft  clay,  and  to  the  future  blind ! 

Woes  without  end  oft  spring  from  transient  lust: 

My  warning  words  thy  happiness  intend; 

Forget  not,  youth,  the  counsel  of  a  friend." 

Then  with  his  lily  wand  he  touch'd  the  knight, 

And  Hiion  views,  0  unexpected  sight! 

Roll'd  from  his  azure  eyes  two  liquid  pearls  descend. 

The  raillery  of  Wieland,  playful,  and  not  acrid  like  the 
mockery  of  Voltaire,  throws  out,  it  will  have  been  noted,  a 
lambent  tongue  of  bright  unburning  flame  that  fastens,  this 
time,  on  the  brethren  and  sisters  of  those  religious  houses. 
These  all  dance,  perforce,  while,  always,  the  knight,  "because 
his  heart  is  pure,"  is  able  to  stay  his  feet  against  the  en- 
chantment of  that  fairy  horn.  Readers  must  be  mindful 
throughout  the  story  that  every  thing  good  for  Htion  hinges 
on  his  maintaining  his  flrmness  against  the  temptation,  of 
which  Oberon,  with  tears,  warns  him  in  his  farewell  words. 


Wielaml.  93 

The  magic  equipment  of  the  knight,  wonderful  as  it  already 
is,  is  not  yet  complete.  One  other  deligiitfully  potent  wea- 
pon of  might.  Sir  Hiion  will  win  for  himself  with  his  own 
knightly  (.in])rise.  There  is,  of  course,  a  lady  sore  beset,  in 
the  c.ise.  The  impossible  sort  of  thing  that  our  young 
knight,  in  sheer  valor,  would  cheerfully  undertake,  and, 
what  is  more,  accomplish  felicitously,  without  receiving  S'> 
much  as  a  scratch  on  his  person  or  a  dint  on  his  mail,  is  Avell 
illustrated  here.  The  distressed  lady  is  shut  up  in  a  castle — 
how  guarded,  and  despite  such  guard  how  entered,  let  the 
poet  in  the  following  stanzas  show: 

Til'  enormous  fabric  form'd  of  iron  ore, 
Close  barr'd  around,  all  avenue  denied, 
Save  where  a  little  gate,  scarce  two  feet  wide, 
Stood  open,  and  the  little  gate  before, 
Metallic  monsters  of  colossal  iieight, 
Tlirougli  sorcery  alive,  so  swiftly  smite 
The  ground,  rebellowing  to  their  iron  flail, 
That  stroke  and  stroke  between,  more  thick  than  hail, 
No  lieani  of  day  can  pass  with  undivided  light- 
Yet  bound  by  kniglithood,  Hijon  firm  reniain'd 
Xot  to  recede,  though  death  his  course  oppose ! 
Yet  siuce  no  counsel  can  these  dangers  close, 
Since  all  must  be  by  force,  not  prudence,  gain'd, 
Forw.ird  he  dashes  through  the  iron  flails. 
Sword  rais'd,  eyes  clos'd — stich  confidence  prevails! 
Heaven  deigns  to  second  his  heroic  trust ; 
Each  fierce  colossus  at  his  foremost  thrust, 
Stands  motionless  as  death,  nor  otlier  foe  assails. 

Such  valor  and  such  prowess  fail  not  of  their  reward, 
The  maid's  deliverer  wins  from  the  heathen  giant,  who 
meant  her  harm,  a  certain  magic  ring  stolen  by  him.  Tliis 
ring  will  l)y  and  by  stand  Sir  Hiion  in  good  stead. 

Oberon  soon  after  sends  to  Hiion,  sleeping,  a  lovely  dream, 
lovely  and  terrible.  The  knight  sees  the  fairest  of  women, 
and  at  once  loves  her  Avith  all  his  heart.  But,  almost  imme- 
diately, he  sees  her  involved  in  ]>eril  from  which,  as  will  hap- 
pen in  dreams,  he  cannot  move  hand  or  foot  to  save  her, 


94  Classic  Gernicui  Course  in  Knglish. 

The  high-wrought  sentiment  of  the  dreaming  knight  is 
rudely  disturbed.  Squire  Sherasmin  speaks,  and  he  and  the 
knight  talk  matters  over.  Readers  will  relish  the  humorous 
Sancho  Panza  quality  in  what  Sherasmin  says: 

"  That  was  a  heavy  dream,"  tlie  old  man  cries; 
"  Too  long,  perchance,  upon  your  back  you  lay." — 

'Now  tell  me,'  says  the  knight,  with  earnest  air, 
'Think'st  thou  not,  friend,  that  dreams,  at  times,  declare 
The  will  of  Heaven  to  man,  and  future  scenes  disclose?' 

"  Such  instances  are  known,"  returns  the  squire, 
"  And  since  I've  followed  your  adventurous  wa}-, 
"Wonders  are  things  of  course,  seen  every  day; 
Yet,  as  your  words  the  truth,  plain  truth,  require. 
Freely  to  speak,  your  dreams  mere  dreams  I  hold!  " 

Sir  Hiion,  at  his  squire's  request,  relates  his  dream,  doing 
so  with  much  effusion  of  feeling.  Sherasmin  at  last  advises 
him  to  cheer  up  and  look  on  the  bright  side.     He  says: 

"  "Were  I,  sir,  in  your  place, 
I  should  erase  what  grieves  me  from  the  case, 
And  stick  to  what  the  spirit  promis'd  fair. 
Courage,  sir  knight!  my  bodings  good  declare! 
Go  forth!  the  living  maid  in  Babylon  embrace!  " 

Onward  they  fare,  and  now  they  are  nearing  Bagdad 
("  Bagdad  "  and  "  Babylon,"  indifferently,  Wieland,  for  con- 
venience, reads  the  "Babilone"  of  the  original  romance), 
when  a  pregnant  adventure  befalls.  Sir  Hiion  rescues  from 
the  jaws  of  a  lion  a  Paynim  knight,  Avho  rewards  his  Chris- 
tian deliverer  by  stealing  the  champion's  horse,  riding  there- 
with safely  away.  The  reader's  feeling  is,  by  this  act  of 
baseness  on  the  Saracen's  pai-t,  well  prepared  to  regard  with 
less  displacency  what  will  happen  to  the  fellow  from  his 
cheated  rescuer's  hand  on  the  occasion  of  a  second  fateful 
encounter  impending. 

At  Bagdad,  all  by  happy  chance,  the  knight  learns  that  the 
caliph's  daughter,  she,  too,  had  had  her  dream — a  marvelous 
match  to  his  own.     Her  maid's   mother  confided  the  matter 


Wieland.  05 

to  Sir  Hiion,  who  had  become  the  old  woman's  guest.  So 
far,  so  good;  but  the  rehictant  princess  was,  the  very  next 
day,  to  be  married  to  a  man  she  abhorred ! 

But  Oberon  is  on  the  right  side,  and  that  is  a  great  mat- 
ter— as  the  story,  trippingly  told  by  Wieland,  abundantly 

shows : 

As  faj-s  not  sparingly  their  favorites  aid, 
A  stately  courser  at  the  cottage  door 
Champs,  with  gay  trappings  richly  cover'd  o'er. 
Two  beauteous  youtlis  in  silver  cloth  array'd 
Wait  at  the  stirrups,  bright  with  burnish'd  gold— 
Up  vaults  the  knight;  the  boys  before  him  hold 
Their  nimble  course,  through  secret  pathways  guide, 
Rich  meads  fair  blooming  by  Euphrates'  side. 
Till  his  impatient  eyes  the  imperial  tow'r  behold. 

Now  to  tlie  table  he  advances  nigh, 

And  with  uplifted  brow  in  wild  amaze 

Th'  admiring  guests  upon  the  stranger  gaze; 

Fair  Rezia,  tranc'd  with  fascinated  eyes, 

Still  views  her  dream,  and  ever  downward  bends; 

The  sultan,  busy  with  the  bowl,  suspends 

All  other  thoughts,  prince  Babekan  alone, 

"Warn'd  by  no  vision,  tow'rds  the  guest  unknown. 

All  fearless  of  his  fate  his  length  of  neck  extends. 

Soon  as  Sir  Hiion's  scornfil  eyes  retrace 

The  man  of  yesterday,  that  he,  the  same 

"Who  lately  dar'd  the  Christian  God  defame, 

Sits  at  the  left,  high-plum'd  in  bridal  grace. 

And  bows  the  neck  as  conscious  of  his  guilt; 

Swift  as  the  light  he  grasps  the  saber's  hilt ; 

Off  at  the  instant  flies  the  heathen's  head ! 

And  o'er  the  caliph  and  the  banquet  shed. 

Up  spirts  liis  boiling  blood,  by  dreadful  vengeance  spilt ! 

The  rest  of  the  commission,  enjoined  by  Charlemagne 
on  the  knight,  proceeds  to  accomplishment  in  mannoi' 
following: 

Low  on  his  knee  Sir  Iliion  humbly  bends; 
With  cool,  heroic  look,  and  gentle  tone 
Begins — ■'Imperial  Ciiarles,  before  wliose  tiirone 
"I  bow.  Ills  faithfid  vassal  hither  sends, 


96  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


"  To  hail  tliee,  Asia's  lord!  willi  greeling  fair, 
"And  beg— forgive,  what  duly  bids  declare — 
"  (For,  as  iny  arin,  my  tongue  obeys  his  laws — ) 
"And  beg — great  sir! — four  grinders  from  your  jaws, 
"  And  from  your  reverend  beard  a  lock  of  silver  hair!  " 

The  caliph  naturally  declines  the  complimentary  lotss  of 
his  grinders,  and  rejects  also  certain  alternative  proposals 
made  him  by  the  knight.  The  scene  at  length  becomes 
highly  uproarious  in  that  festal  hall,  when  suddenly  Oberon 
presents  himself.     Wieland : 

Loud  rings  the  castle  with  rebellowing  shocks; 
Night,  tenfold  midnight,  swallows  up  the  day; 
Ghosts,  to  and  fro,  like  gleams  of  lightning  play, 
The  stony  basis  of  the  turret  rocks! 

With  miracle  on  miracle  opprest, 

Tiie  caliph  struggles  with  the  pangs  of  death  ; 

His  arm  hangs  loose,  deep  drawn  his  heavy  breath, 

Scarce  beats  liis  pulse,  it  flutters,  sinks  to  rest. 

At  once  the  storm  is  hush'd  that  roar'd  so  loud; 

While  sweetly  breathing  o'er  the  prostrate  crowd, 

A  lily  vapour  sheds  around  perfume. 

And,  like  an  angel  image  on  a  tomb. 

The  fairy  spright  appears,  array'd  in  silvtr  cloud! 

Every  thing  is  easy  to  Oberon.  One  of  his  elfin  retinue 
featly  pluck<,  without  pain  to  the  owner,  four  teeth  from  the 
jaws  of  the  cali](h,  and  packs  them,  with  a  tuft  of  his  beard 
to  boot^  as  if  they  were  jewels,  for  Sir  Hiion  to  carry  home 
with  him.  As  for  Hiion  and  his  bride,  Rezia  by  name,  they, 
with  their  respective  attendants,  Sherasmin  and  Fatme,  go 
sailing  far  away,  borne  softly  through  the  air  in  a  fairy 
chariot  drawn  by  swans.  Sherasmin  may  think  his  thoughts, 
but — now  Wieland  : 

*  Far  other  tlioughts  inspire  the  j^outhful  pair, 

Wiiom  love  with  Cytherea's  swans  conveys — 
Whether  they  speed  along  unwonted  ways. 
Winged  through  the  pathless  regions  of  the  air; 
Whether  tliey  roll  on  earth,  or  swim  the  main; 
Whether  with  flying  course,  or  flngging  rein  ; 


Wieland.  97 

How  borne,  thro'  rough  or  smooth,  by  swan  or  steed ; 

What  perils  threaten,  or  what  scenes  succeed ; 

Of  these  no  transient  thought  e'er  flits  across  the  brain. 

The  lovers  have  a  lovely  time  of  it  together — too  lovely, 
alas !  and  not  Sherasmin,  with  long  instructive  tale  of 
Oberon  and  Titania's  estrangement,  avails  to  impress  them 
sufficiently  with  the  need  of  self-control.  (Sherasmin's  di- 
dactic tale,  by  the  way,  is  a  borrowing  of  Wieland's  from 
Chaucer,  in  that  poet's  piece  entitled,  January  and  May. 
Probably,  however,  Wieland  got  it,  not  directly  from  Chau- 
cer, but  indirectly  through  Pope,  who  paraphrased  Chaucer's 
story.  This  interlude  of  the  Oberon,  Sotheby  judiciously 
omits.  It  is  a  salacious  affair.)  The  over-tempted  travel- 
ers fail  of  fulfilling  the  condition  on  which  Oberon's  favor 
depends,  and  the  fairy  king,  immeasurably  vexed  that  he 
has  so  lost  his  hoped-for  chance  of  honorable  return  to  his 
forsworn  Titania,  plunges  the  hapless  pair  in  manifold  mis- 
eries. But  Titania,  tired,  as  is  her  husband,  of  long  conjugal 
separation,  intervenes,  and  a  fresh  hope  dawns  on  their 
future.  If  now,  against  resistless  temptation,  they  both  re- 
sist, and  keep  true  to  each  other  in  perfect  faith,  Oberon  and 
Titania  may  yet  come  together.  The  trial  of  their  steadfast- 
ness is  described  by  Wieland  in  long  detail,  with  wonderful 
delicacy  for  realism  so  daring.  The  two  are  torn  asunder, 
and  each  without  the  knowledge  of  the  other  undergoes  the 
terrible  test.  Both  stand  firm,  and  for  their  firmness  are 
condemned  to  death  by  fire.  The  pyre  is  built,  and,  by  way 
of  well-plotted  coincidence,  the  two,  bound  face  to  face,  are 
laid  on  it  together.  But  their  enemies  have  reckoned  with- 
out Oberon.  At  the  exact  critical  moment,  Hiion  finds  the 
miraculous  horn  miraculously  about  his  neck.  He  of  course 
winds  it,  and  sets  his  enemies  dancing.  The  prosperous 
ending  of  all  speeds  on  apace. 

The  aerial  ride  which  Oberon   gives  to  Sir  Hilon  and  his 

Amanda    (so   his  wife,   the    sultan's    daughter,    Rezia,   was 

christened)  is,  with  its  paradisaical  conclusion,  thus  described 

by   Wieland.      The  meeting  and    reconciliation  of  Oberon 

5 


Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


with  Titania  are,  it  will  be  seen,  introduced.  The  transla- 
tor's verse,  like  his  original's,  seems  to  experience  an  access 
of  ease  and  swiftness  in  sympathy  with  a  voyage  so  luxurious 
and  an  arrival  so  delightfully  welcomed  : 

They  mount  the  car — tlie  Moors  may  ceaseless  prance 

Long  as  such  fancies  please  the  fairj^  king ; 

Though  Sherasmin,  who  views  the  giddy  ring, 

Thinks  that  to  delve  the  dike,  not  weave  the  dance, 

Were  better  pastime  for  that  roguish  crew. 

Th'  aerial  steeds  their  noiseless  course  pursue  ; 

Nimble  as  thought  itself,  and  soft  as  sleep, 

O'er  land  and  sea  their  piuions  smoothl}^  sweep, 

While  zephyrs  fan  the  clouds  that  round  the  chariot  flew. 

Already  they  behold  where  twiliglit  sweeps 

Her  veil  of  shapeless  mist  o'er  mount  and  hill ; 

And  see  the  moon  admire  her  image  still 

In  many  a  lake  that  calm  beneath  her  sleeps. 

Night  far  and  wide  her  silent  shadow  flings, 

As  earthward  gradual  with  descending  wings 

The  self-reined  swans  their  course  celestial  leave  ; 

When,  as  if  woven  from  the  rosy  eve, 

Radiant  before  their  sight  a  floating  palace  springs! 

Girt  with  a  pleasant  grove,  sweet  shades  between, 

Where  arching  rose-trees  meet  in  wavy  play, 

Appeared  the  palace  whose  alluring  ray 

Bright  through  the  wood's  o'orshadowiug  foliage  seen. 

Diffused  around  its  wide  resplendent  light. 

"This,  was  not  this  the  place?  "  soft  breathed  the  knight; 

Yet,  ere  he  forms  the  sound,  a  golden  gale 

At  once  expands,  and  lo  !  in  graceful  state, 

Twice  ten  fair  virgins  float  before  their  ravished  sight. 

With  ever-blooming  cheeks  the  virgins  move. 

Beauteous  as  May,  and  decked  in  robes  of  snow; 

And  hail,  triumphant  from  the  world  of  woe. 

The  pair  whom  Oberon  greets  with  boundless  love. 

To  graceful  measures  glide  the  choral  throng. 

And  truth's  immortal  guerdon  swells  the  song — 

"Come,  faithful  pair!  "  (while  golden  cymbals  ring. 

Light  as  they  weave  the  dance,  and  sweetly  sing) 

"  Blest  pair !  receive  this  wreatli !  to  you  tliese  flowers  belong." 


Wielaud.  09 

The  lovers,  scarce  themselves,  in  blissful  trance 

Rapt  in  another  world,  lioat  hand  in  hand. 

Where  ranged  on  either  side  the  virgins  stand; 

There,  as  a  sun,  before  tlieir  dazzled  glance, 

And  like  a  bridegroom  robed  in  radiant  sheen, 

The  fairy  monarch  stood  witli  graceful  mien. 

No  more  in  sweet  disguise,  a  lovely  child ; 

On  3'outh's  full  bloom  eternal  beauty  smiled, 

And  sparkliug  on  his  hand  th'  enchanted  ring  is  seen. 

Titania,  by  his  side,  with  roses  wreathed, 

GleauiS  like  a  bride  in  moonlight's  modest  ray; 

Tiieir  wedded  hands  a  myrtle  crown  display; 

"  Take,"  with  sweet  tone  their  souls  harmonious  breathed, 

"  Thou  faithful  pair  !  for  you  alone  decreed, 

This  well-earned  chaplet,  victory's  heavenly  meed  I 

Receive  from  friendly  hands  the  gift  divine! 

And  long  as  ye  retain  this  favored  sign. 

So  never  from  your  hearts  shall  happiness  recede!  " 

The  final  iiickleiits  form  a  fit  and  felicitous  issue  to  so 
much  remavkable  vicissitude  of  fortune.  The  return  of  the 
pair  to  Charlemagne's  court  ha})i)ens  upon  the  occasion  of  a 
tournament,  of  which  the  prize  proposed  to  the  victorious 
knight  is — what,  to  be  sure,  but  Sir  Hiion's  own  ancestral 
castle  and  domain,  confiscated  to  this  purpose  in  view  of  the 
supposed  certainty  of  his  never  returning!  Sir  Htion  is  not 
left  in  the  lurch  by  his  fairy  friend  Oberon.  How  he  is  sumpt- 
uously provided,  to  make  good  his  claim  to  his  ow^n;  and  how, 
with  fortune  equal  to  his  virtue,  he  accomplishes  this — it 
may  be  safely  left  to  the  imagination  of  the  reader  to  guess. 
Here  is  the  very  last  stanza  of  the  poem ;  in  it,  the  emperor 
handsomely  recovers  himself  to  something  like  imperial  mag- 
nanimity: 

Charles  from  liis  throne  descends,  with  noble  grace 

Bids  welcome  to  the  court  the  beauteous  bride: 

Tlie  peers  that  press  around  on  every  side 

The  youthful  hero  in  their  arms  embrace — 

The  youthful  hero,  from  such  perils  freed. 

Who,  home  returned,  achieved  the  adventurous  deed — 


100  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

The  emperor  clasps  him  with  paternal  haud — 

"And  ne'er,"  he  cries,  "  be  wanting  to  o\u'  land, 

A  prince  lii<e  tliee,  to  win  high  virtue's  heavenly  meed." 

Oheron  is  unique  in  German  literature  for  liappy  whole- 
ness and  oneness.  Tlie  plot  is  a  masterpiece  of  felicity  and 
skill  in  invention  and  joinery.  Wieland  was  indebted  for 
his  idea  to  an  anonymous  French  chanson  de  geste,  so-called, 
that  is,  "  song  of  exploit,"  belonging  to  the  Middle  Ages,  en- 
titled Hiion  of  Bordeaux.  This  work,  in  Wieland's  time, 
existed  only  in  manuscript.  A  year  or  two,  however,  before 
Oheron  was  begun,  a  bare  absti-act  of  the  old  romance  was 
printed.  This  became  in  Wieland's  mind  the  quick  seed 
which  sprang  up  and  bloomed  in  the  brilliant  flower  of  the 
Oheron. 

Wieland  used  great  freedom  with  his  original  romance. 
Generally,  his  changes  were  for  the  better.  We  have  seen 
the  French  critic,  Saint-Marc  Girardin,  quoted  as  expressing 
a  preference  for  Huon  of  Bordeaux  over  Wieland's  Oheron. 
He  seemed  to  find  the  mediseval  poem  more  delicate  in  de- 
scribing the  passion  of  love  than  is  its  modern  version.  This 
criticism  is  to  us  incomprehensible.  The  present  writer  has 
had  the  curiosity  to  look  with  some  care  over  the  pages  of 
Huon  de  Bordeaux,  now  accessible  in  print  to  the  public, 
and  he  has  lighted  upon  nothing  there  deserving  the  praise 
of  delicacy,  in  contrast  with  Wieland's  Oheron.  The  caliph's 
(admiral's)  daughter,  for  example,  in  the  chanson  de  geste,  is 
so  unscrupulously  eager  for  her  foreign  and  unknown  Chris- 
tian lover  that,  to  get  out  of  the  way  all  obstacles  to  the 
union  she  desires,  she  is  even  fain  to  put  her  father  to  death 
with  her  own  hands. 

And  yet  we  do  not  rate  very  high  the  delicacy  of  Oheron. 
Delicacy  the  poem  has,  but  it  is  delicacy  of  touch  rather 
than  delicacy  of  tone.  The  tone  is  not  high.  There  is  little 
to  uplift  in  the  Oheron.  The  poem  runs  along  on  a  some- 
what lowly  moral  level.  It  is  of  the  earth,  earthy.  The  intel- 
lectual level  of  the  poem  is  not  much  higher  than  the  moral. 
There  is  some   imagination,   some    fancy,   much   felicity  of 


Wieland.  101 

phrase,  of  metre,  of  rhythm,  sufficient  wealth  of  invention, 
but  there  is  no  thought  save  what  is  perfectly  commonplace 
thought.  This  comraonplaceness  in  thought  may  be  praised 
as  a  virtue  of  the  Oberon,  and  we  will  not  gainsay  ;  but  as 
at  least  a  characteristic  of  the  Oberon,  it  cannot  be  denied.  It 
is  truly  surprising  how  simple,  how  ordinary,  how  obvious, 
how  matter-of-course,  liow  commonplace,  every  thing  in  the 
Oberon  is — the  plot  and  the  machinery  being  supposed  given. 
This  perhaps  is  as  it  should  be.  It  probably  constitutes  the 
absolute  triumph  of  the  poet  and  the  artist.  But  it  is  a 
triumph  achieved  in  a  comparatively  humble  order  of  things. 
In  short,  the  Oberon  is  the  finest  poem  that  exists  of  its 
class  ;  but  its  class  is  modest  indeed  compared  with  that  of 
such  a  modern  handling  of  an  ancient  theme  as  Tennyson 
gave  us  when  he  wrote  his  Guinevere.  Some  readers,  with 
those  verses  of  Milton  in  mind  appealing  every  thing  to  the 
"  perfect  witness  of  all-judging  Jove,"  and  awarding  fame 
strictly. 

As  lie  pronounces  lastly  on  eacli  deed, 

may  like  to  see  the  Olympian  sentence  of  Goethe:  "So  long- 
as  poetry  remains  poetry,  gold  gold,  and  crystal  crystal, 
Oberon  will  be  loved  and  admired  as  a  masterpiece  of  po- 
etic art." 

Wieland's  prose  Av^orks  have  none  of  them  resisted  the 
antiquating  influence  of  time.  In  one  of  his  "  dialogues  of 
the  gods"  there  is  a  rather  interesting  anonymous  introduc- 
tion, as  "The  Unknown,"  of  Jesus  Christ  in  the  character  of 
an  interlocutor.  This  unknown  personage  converses  with 
Jupiter  and  Numa.  He  sketches  to  those  pagan  divinities, 
quite  as  a  Voltairean  deist  might  be  expected  to  make  him 
ilo,  his  own  enthusiastic  scheme  of  beneficence  to  the 
human  race.  Jupiter,  somewhat  satirically,  treats  \\u\\  with 
the  condescension  of  seniority.  The  time  chosen  for  the 
dialogue  to  occur  seems  to  be  that  of  Constant ine  the  Great 
(A.  D.  300).  When,  in  due  time,  tlie  mysterious  stranger 
vanishes,  the    dialocrue   concludes   with    the    following   ex- 


102  Classio  German  Course  in  English. 

change  of  question  and  reply  between  Numa  and  Jupiterj 
left  alone  together  : 

Numa  (to  Jupiter).   What  sayst  thou  to  this  apparition,  Jupiter? 
Jupiter.    Ask  me  fifteen  liuudred  years  iience. 

Heinrich  Heine  has  somewhere  a  very  striking  sentence, 
representing  the  assembly  of  the  Olympian  gods  disturbed 
by  the  entrance  of  the  crucified  Galilsean,  who  flings  his 
bloody  cross  on  their  banqueting-table,  and  puts  a  stop  to 
their  carousal.  One  is  reminded  of  this,  by  the  foregoing 
far  paler,  far  less  imaginative,  and  far  less  powerful  concep- 
tion of  Wieland's.  Bayard  Taylor's  Masque  of  the  Gods 
might  almost  seem  to  have  found  in  Wieland's  dialogue  its 
seed  of  suggestion. 

Wieland  died  repeating,  in  his  own  translation,  the  soliloquy 
of  Hamlet.  "  To  die — to  sleep,"  were  his  last  words — so 
spoken,  and  by  such  a  man,  words  of  mournful  skepticism, 
rather  than  of  Christian  trust  and  rest. 

We  cannot  forbear  adding  still  a  note  of  Wieland's  own, 
respecting  a  personal  interview  that  it  was  his  fortune  once 
to  have  with  the  invading  and  conquering  Napoleon  at 
Weimai".  It  will  aflford  an  interesting  contrast  with  a  like 
experience  of  Goethe's,  to  be  noted  hereafter.  Wieland 
writes  : 

Tlie  Duchess  presented  me  to  him  in  form,  and  he  addressed  me  affably 
with  some  words  of  compliment,  looking  me  steadily  in  the  face.  Few 
persons  have  appeared  to  me  so  rapidly  to  see  through  a  man  at  a  glance. 
He  instantly  perceived  that,  notwithstanding  my  celebrity,  I  was  a  plain, 
unassuming  old  man ;  and,  as  he  seemed  desirous  of  making,  forever,  a 
good  impression  on  me,  he  at  once  assumed  tlie  form  best  adapted  to 
attain  his  end.  I  never  saw  a  man  in  appearance  calmei',  plainer,  milder, 
or  more  unpretending.  Xo  trace  was  visible  about  him  of  tlie  conscious- 
ness tliat  he  was  a  great  monarch.  He  talked  to  me  like  an  old  acquaint- 
ance with  his  equal,  and,  which  was  very  rare  with  him,  chatted  with  me 
exclusively  an  entire  hour  and  a  half,  to  the  great  surprise  of  all  who 
were  present.  At  length,  about  midnight,  I  began  to  feel  inconvenience 
from  standing  so  long,  and  took  the  liberty  of  requesting  his  majesty's 
permission  to  withdraw.  "  Allez  cionc,"  said  he  in  a  friendly  tone;  ^'bon 
soir."    [Go,  then  ;  good  night.] 


Wieland.  103 

The  more  remarkable  traits  of  our  interview  were  these:  Tlie  previous 
play  having  made  Caesar  the  subject  of  our  conversation,  Napoleon  ob- 
served that  he  was  one  of  the  greatest  characters  in  all  history ;  and  that, 
indeed,  he  would  have  been,  without  exception,  the  greatest,  but  for  one 
blunder.  I  was  about  to  inquire  to  what  anecdote  he  alluded,  when  he 
seemed  to  read  the  question  in  my  eye,  and  continued :  •'  Caesar  knew 
the  men  who  wanted  to  get  rid  of  him,  and  he  ought  to  have  been  rid 
of  them  first."  If  Napoleon  could  have  read  all  that  passed  in  my  mind, 
he  would  have  perceived  me  saying.  Such  a  blunder  will  never  be  laid  to 
your  charge.  .  .  . 

He  preferred  Ossiau  to  Homer.  .  .  .  Notwithstanding  the  flattering 
friendliness  of  his  apparent  manner,  he  repeatedly  gave  me  the  idea  of  his 
being  cast  from  bronze. 

At  length,  however,  he  had  put  me  so  much  at  my  ease,  that  I  asked 
him  how  it  happened  that  the  public  worship,  wliich  he  had  in  some 
degree  reformed  in  France,  had  not  been  rendered  more  philosophic,  and 
more  on  a  par  with  the  spirit  of  the  times.  "  My  dear  Wieland,"  he 
replied,  "  worship  is  not  made  for  philosophers ;  they  believe  neither  in 
me  nor  in  my  priesthood.  As  for  those  who  do  believe,  you  cannot  give 
them,  or  leave  them,  wonders  enough.  If  I  had  to  make  a  religion  for 
philosophers,  it  should  be  just  the  reverse."  In  this  tone  the  conversation 
went  on  for  some  time,  and  Bonaparte  professed  so  much  skepticism  as 
to  question  whether  Jesus  Christ  had  ever  existed. 

There  is,  in  Wielaud's  character  both  as  author  and  as 
man,  so  much  to  engage  the  kind  feeling  of  the  reader,  such 
cheerfulness,  such  brightness,  such  versatility,  such  pliancy, 
such  good-nature,  such  amiable  desire  to  please,  that,  not- 
withstanding his  faults,  of  levity,  of  fickleness,  of  lascivi- 
ousness,  of  skepticism,  one  does  not  part  from  him  without 
a  certain  regret.  His  company,  at  least  to  your  slacker 
moods  of  mind,  is  not — though  perhaps  it  ought  to  be — the 
less  delightful,  that  it  never  threatens  to  "  disturb "  you 
"  with  the  joy  of  elevated  thoughts." 


104  Classic  German  Coarse  in  English. 

VI. 

HERDER. 

1744-1803. 

Among  the  greater  divinities  of  the  German  literary 
Olympus,  Goethe  is  generally  the  one  selected  to  stand  for 
Jove,  the  monarch  of  them  all.  This,  if  regard  be  had 
chiefly  to  supremacy  of  fame  and  of  influence,  is,  of  course, 
an  arrangement  of  the  hierarchy  not  to  be  quarreled  with. 
We,  however,  imagine  that  Goethe's  noble  personal  presence, 
"  the  front  of  Jove  himself,"  has,  by  natural,  if  illogical,  as- 
sociative effect,  had  something  to  do  with  the  instinctive  and 
almost  universal  acclamation  which  has  crowned  this  elect 
favorite  of  fortune  the  German  literary  Zeus. 

Herder  was  a  less  impressive-looking  physical  man  than 
was  Goethe;  but,  if  physical  qualities  were  to  be  carefully 
denied  any  influence,  and  if  moral  qualities  were  to  weigh, 
and  to  weigh  equally  with  intellectual,  in  making  their  pos- 
sessor a  candidate  for  pre-eminent  place;  if  a  certain  inborn 
kingliness  of  soul,  a  certain  proud  consciousness  imprinted  on 
the  brow,  of  inalienable  native  right  to  reign,  were  to  be 
accepted  in  evidence  of  title — in  one  word,  if  ethical  height 
as  well  as  mental  breadth  were  to  be  measured,  in  finding 
out  the  true  Jove  among  German  literary  men,  then  Her- 
der, and  not  Goethe,  would  undoubtedly  be  that  monarch. 
In  our  own  opinion,  at  least,  the  erectest,  the  stateliest,  in 
short,  seen  by  the  eye  of  the  morally-judging  mind,  the 
kingliest,  of  all  his  peers  is  he. 

But  this  majestic  man  was  not,  like  Goethe,  born  to  ease 
and  leisure.  The  mien  of  courtliness  and  command,  the 
grace  of  elegance  in  manner,  which  in  Herder  so  well  com- 
ported with  his  fame,  were  not  the  fruit  to  him  of  early  habit 
and  example.  Herder  was  of  poor,  almost  squalid,  extrac- 
tion. Burke  proudly  told  the  Duke  of  Bedford:  "  Nitor  in 
adversum  ['  I  struggle  against  adverse  circumstance ']  is  the 


Herder.  105 

motto  for  a  man  like  me."  With  much  more  force  of  truth, 
Herder  miglit  have  said  the  same  concerning  himself. 

Herder's  life  was  still  bound  in  shallows  and  in  miseries, 
when,  from  the  great  tide  in  affairs  created  by  Frederick  the 
Great,  a  sudden  flush  flowed  into  his  native  A'illage,  which 
bore  the  eager  youth  unexpectedly  out  into  sea-room.  A 
regiment  returning  from  the  Seven  Years'  War  was  quartered 
at  Mohrungen.  The  regimental  surgeon  got  his  eye  on  Her- 
der, and  proposed  making  him  a  student  of  surgery.  The 
beneficiary  was  in  return  to  translate  a  professional  treatise  of 
his  patron's  into  Latin.  This  was  done  ;  but  the  first  surgical 
operation  witnessed  by  the  student  settled  the  business  for 
him.  He  fainted  away  at  the  sight,  and  renounced  the  pro- 
fession forever.  He  was  destined,  as  will  presently  appear, 
to  be,  later,  a  subject,  instead  of  a  practitioner,  of  surgery. 
Then,  suffering  such  as  he  could  not  see  in  another,  he  en- 
dured himself  with  stoic  fortitude.  His  imagination,  more 
sensitive  than  his  nerves,  made  sympathy  to  him  more  pain- 
ful than  pain. 

Herder  was  fairly  out  in  the  world  now  ;  alas,  however, — 
the  business  of  surgery  abandoned — with  nothing  to  do,  but 
starve — or  return  to  Mohrungen.  He  chose  starving;  and 
remained  at  Konigsberg,  whither  he  had  gone  with  his  friend 
the  surgeon.  His  acquaintances  in  Konigsberg  helping  him 
a  little,  and  his  kindred  helping  him  a  little  from  home,  he 
entered  I  he  University  of  Konigsberg,  to  study  theology. 
"Plain  living  and  high  thinking  "  sustained  him — sometimes 
it  would  seem  to  have  been  more  the  "  high  thinking  "  than  the 
"plain  living";  the  living  was  so  very  plain,  and  therewithal 
so  scant — mere  bread,  and  short  rations  of  that.  This  lofty 
spirit,  when,  toward  the  end  of  life,  he  felt  himself  sinking, 
sighed  and  said,  "  O,  if  some  grand  new  thought  would  come 
and  pierce  my  soul  through  and  thi'ough,  I  should  be  well  in 
a  moment."  Who  knows?  That  may  have  been  a  wind  of  re- 
miniscence out  of  his  own  past.  Perhaps  he  unconsciously 
remembered  "nourishing  a  y<nith  sublime"  on  that  nobler 
tliau    Olvmpian    tare,    the    diet    of   "  liigh  thinking,"    wlu'u 


1U6  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

he  was  a  i)enniless  student  at  the  University  of  Konigs- 
berg. 

At  Konigsberg,  he  fell  upon  the  time  of  the  great  philos- 
opher Kant. 

Not  Kant,  however,  but  a  man  far  less  known  than  Kant, 
a  man  in  fact  scarcely  known  at  all  except  to  the  specialist 
in  German  literature,  exerted  in  Konigsberg  the  leading  in. 
iiuence  on  Herder's  intellectual  development  and  history. 
Hamann  was  nothing  less  than  an  indispensable  factor  in  the 
making  of  Herder  into  what  he  became.  Herder  became 
one  of  the  acknowledged  chief  ruling  powers  in  the  world 
of  German  thought  and  German  letters;  and  this  without 
writing  any  single  work  that  can  justly  be  called  a  master- 
piece of  literature.  His  fame  was  greater  than  any  literary 
achievement  to  which  it  could  appeal,  and  his  influence  was 
still  greater  than  his  fame.  Herder  taught  liis  countrymen 
to  study  the  literatures  of  the  East,  Herder  taught  his  coun- 
trymen to  explore  the  treasures  of  popular  poetry  among 
different  peoples;  and  the  teacher  was  really  Hamann  through 
Herder.  Unconsciously,  Hamann  had  moved  a  mind  that  was 
to  move  the  world — the  world,  that  is,  of  German  literature. 
The  character,  in  especial,  of  breadth,  of  catholicity,  of  open 
hospitality  to  ideas,  which  we  have  already  attributed  to 
German  letters,  was  an  impression  and  impulse  received  more 
from  Herder  than  from  any  other  hand.  Herder  was,  early, 
by  personal  contact,  as  Avell  as  through  the  influence  of  his 
books,  one  of  the  chief  teachers  of  Goethe.  Later,  the  grow- 
ing moral  separation  between  them  left  Goethe  less  capable 
of  receiving  the  elevating  influence  which  Herder  was  not 
less,  but  more  and  more,  capable  of  imparting.  A  letter  of 
Herder's  on  the  subject  of  Goethe's  Wilhelni  Meister  makes 
dignified  but  melancholy  note  of  this.  It  is  a  letter  addressed 
to  a  lady,  the  Countess  Bandissin,  who  seems  to  have  applied 
to  Herder  for  his  opinion  of  that  production  of  Goethe's, 
Herder  wn-ites  : 

I   owe  you  an   answer  respecting    Goethe's  novel    ( Wilhehn  Meiste^r). 
Do  not  reproach  me  as  though  I  were  myself  the  author,  for  I  have  only 


Herder.  10  V 

read  it  the  other  day,  later  tlian  most  people.  Many  years  ago,  indeed, 
he  read  us  some  passages  that  pleased  us,  althougli  we  even  tlien  re- 
gretted the  bad  company  that  his  hero  keeps  so  long.  But  then  the 
story  was  quite  a  diflerenl  thing.  We  made  the  young  man's  acquaint- 
ance in  his  childhood,  and  conceived  an  interest  in  him  that  gradually 
increased,  even  when  he  went  astray.  Now  it  has  quite  another  cast ; 
we  see  the  hero  from  the  tirst  where  we  had  rather  not  see  him  at  all, 
and  are  left  to  find  out  for  ourselves  how  he  got  there,  while  at  the  same 
time  he  is  no  longer  sufficiently  interesting  in  himself  to  merit  our  sym- 
pathy. I  have  expostulated  without  effect,  and  none  of  the  scenes 
where  Philina  appears  were  shown  to  me  in  manuscript.  My  own  opinion 
of  all  that  part  is  the  same  as  yours,  and,  I  should  imagine,  as  that  of  all 
right-thinking  people.  Goethe  thinks  otherwise ;  truthfulness  of  scene 
is  to  him  all  in  all,  and  he  troubles  himself  extremely  little  about  eleva- 
tion of  sentiment  or  moral  gracefulness.  In  fact,  this  is  the  fault  of  many 
of  his  writings,  and  the  difference  of  our  sentiments  has  caused  him  to 
desist  from  taking  ray  opiniou  on  any  of  them.  I  hate  the  whole  gen- 
eration of  his  Marianas  and  Philinas;  and  neither  in  life  nor  the  repre- 
sentation of  it  can  I  endure  any  sacrifice  of  actual  morality  to  mere  talent, 
or  what  people  call  by  that  name. 

Herder,  widely  and  brilliantly  famous  as  a  preacher,  had 
been  drawn  to  Weimar  by  the  invitation  of  the  Grand  Duke — 
to  become  in  the  end  "  superintendent "  of  the  clergy  of  his 
realm.  He  there  of  course  knew  Goethe  well,  had  in  fact 
known  him  before  going  there,  and  he  in  due  time  became 
acquainted  with  Schiller,  when  Schiller  also  came,  first  to 
Jena,  near  by,  and  afterward  to  Weimar;  but  his  rela- 
tion to  them  Avas  never  quite  easy.  That  Herder  was  felt 
by  those  two  great  reigning  powers  of  Weimar  to  be,  in 
example  and  in  sentiment,  a  rebuke  to  such  license  as 
Goethe  practiced  and  as  Schiller  allowed,  was  reason  enough 
why  that  pure  and  strenuous  spirit  should  be,  as  he  was, 
under  some  cloud  of  disfavor  with  them.  Schiller,  for  ex- 
ample, writing  to  Kurner,  condescended  ngain  and  again  to 
peddle  out,  to  the  disadvantage  of  Herder,  the  spiteful  gossip 
of  the  frivolous,  current  in  that  corrupt  little  capital,  AVeimar. 
Here  is  one  of  his  stories,  amusing  undoubtedly,  and,  how- 
ever self-evidently  unvei'iliable,  having  a  certain  likeness  to 
life.     It  seems  at  least  to  illustrate  the  unwillingly  reverent 


108  .  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

popular  conception,  prevailing  in  the  time  and  the  place,  with 
regard  to  the  character  of  Herder  ;  as  well  as  the  relation 
which  could  not  but  subsist  between  a  man  so  chaste  and  so 
serious,  and  the  })roducer,  or  the  encourager,  of  a  literature 
libidinous  like  the  Roman  Elegies  of  Goethe  publislied  by 
Schiller  in  his  magazine  The  Hours.  ("  Some  of  the  coarsest 
of  Goethe's  Elegies  were  purposely  omitted,  not  to  shock 
decency  too  much,"  Schiller  writes  to  Korner.)  Schiller's 
story  : 

Herder  and  his  wife  live  in  selfish  retirement,  from  which  they  exclude 
every  other  son  of  earth.  But  as  both  are  proud  and  violent,  these  self- 
elected  deities  often  dispute  with  each  other.  When  this  is  the  case  they 
retire  to  their  respective  apartments,  and  letters  go  up-stairs  and  down- 
stairs between  the  two,  uuiil  the  lady  enters  her  husband's  room  and  re- 
cites some  portion  of  his  writiugs,  adding  the  words,  "He  who  wrote 
that  must  be  a  god,  and  anger  cannot  touch  him."  Whereupon  the  ap- 
peased Herder  throw:j  his  arms  round  her  neck  and  the  quarrel  is  made 
up.     Praise  the  Almighty  that  ye  are  immortal! 

The  story  reminds  us  that  Herder  has  previously  found  a 
wife,  without  our  having  taken  note  of  the  fact.  His  mar- 
riage was  a  nearly  ideal  one.  The  wife  he  found  will  be 
spoken  of  in  a  passage  presently  to  be  shown  from  the  auto- 
biography of  Goethe.  Meantime,  one  or  two  more  bits  of 
allusion  to  Herder  out  of  the  letters  of  Schiller  to  Korner. 
These  will  help  still  further  to  set  out  in  distinctness,  by 
contrast,  that  noble  severity  in  Herder,  the  firm  outline  of 
which  not  even  the  enervating  softness  of  Weimar  could 
prevail  to  subdue.     Schiller  says: 

Herder  was  cutout  for  a  distinguished  dignitary  of  the  Roman  Cathohc 
Church,  genially  insipid  and  oratorically  pliant  when  he  wishes  to  please. 

Schiller  says  again : 

What  disgusts  me  most  with  him  [Herder]  is  an  indolent  carelessness, 
accompanied  by  sarcastic  impudence.  He  shows  a  venomous  envy  to- 
ward all  that  is  good  and  energetic,  and  affects  to  protect  what  is  middling. 
He  made  the  most  offensive  remarks  to  Goethe  about  his  Meister.  His 
heart  is  overloaded  with  bile  against  Kant  and  the  philosophers  of  the 
new  school. 


Herder.  '109 

The  querulous,  not  to  say  termagant,  tone  of  Schiller  in 
the  foregoing  quoted  expressions  of  his  is,  we  regret  to  say, 
not  uncharacteristic  of  this  famous  man,  as  he  appears,  often 
in  most  disadvantageous  contrast  with  his  friend,  in  his  cor- 
respondence with  Korner.  Herder,  it  seems,  was  "  impu- 
dent" !  Of  what  sort  his  impudence  was  it  is  easy  to  guess, 
from  Schiller's  allusion  to  Herder's  "  offensive  "  remarks  to 
Goethe  about  that  author's  Wilhelm  Meister.  Now  let  Go- 
ethe himself  speak  of  Herder  in  the  promised  passage  from 
the  former's  autobiography.  Goethe  here  exhibits  himself, 
as  well  as  Herder,  to  fine  advantage.  Goethe  is  recounting 
the  experiences  that  befell  him  when  he  was  a  student  in  the 
University  of  Strasburg.     He  says : 

The  most  important  event,  one  that  was  to  have  the  weightiest  conse- 
quences for  me,  was  my  acquaintance  with  Herder,  and  the  nearer  con- 
nection with  him  which  sprang  from  it.  [Tlie  first  meeting  of  the  two 
was  a  casual  one  at  Strasburg.]  At  parting  I  begged  permission  to 
wait  on  him  at  his  own  residence,  whicii  he  granted  me  kindly  enough. 
I  did  not  neglect  to  avail  myself  repeatedly  of  this  favor,  and  was  more 
and  more  attracted  b\-him.  He  had  a  certain  gentleness  in  his  manner 
which  was  very  suitable  and  becoming  without  being  exactly  easy.  .  .  . 
By  various  questions  he  tried  to  make  himself  acquainted  with  me  and 
ni}'  situation,  and  his  power  of  attraction  operated  on  me  with  growing 
strength.  I  was,  generally  speaking,  of  a  very  confiding  disposition ; 
and  with  him  especially  I  had  no  secrets.  It  was  not  long,  however, 
before  the  repelling  pulse  of  his  nature  began  to  appear  and  placed  me 
in  no  small  uneasiness. 

It  seems  that  young  Goethe  had  a  mania  for  collecting, 
not  autographs,  and  not  postage-stamps,  but  the  "  seals  "  of 
titled  personages.     Goethe  says: 

I  related  to  him  many  things  of  my  yontliful  occupations  and  tastes, 
and,  among  others,  of  a  collection  of  seals,  whicii  I  had  principally  gotten 
together  through  the  assistance  of  our  family  friend,  who  had  an  exten- 
sive correspondence.  I  had  arranged  them  according  to  tiie  Slate  Cal- 
endar, and  by  this  means  liad  become  well  acquainted  with  all  the  poten- 
tates, the  greater  and  lesser  miglitinesses  and  powers,  even  down  to  the 
nobility  under  them.  These  heraldic  insignia  had  often,  and  in  particu- 
lar at  the  ceremonies  of  the  coronation,  been  of  use  to  my  memory.  I 
spoke  of  tliese  things  with   some   complacency;  but  he  was   of  another 


110  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

opinion,  and  not  only  stripped  the  subject  of  all  interest,  but  also  con- 
trived to  make  it  ridiculous  and  nearly  disgusting.  From  this  his  spirit 
of  contradiction  I  had  much  to  endure. 

At  tlie  time  of  which  Goethe,  throughout  this  passage,  is 
speaking,  Herder  was  on  a  visit  to  Strasburg  to  receive  sui*- 
gical  treatment  for  a  disorder  in  his  eyes.     Goethe  says : 

I  found  every  reason  to  admire  his  great  firmness  and  endurance;  for 
neither  during  the  numerous  surgical  operations,  nor  at  the  oft-repeated 
painful  dressings,  did  he  show  himself  in  any  degree  irriiable;  and  of 
all  of  us  he  seemed  to  be  the  one  that  suffered  least.  .  .  .  Herder  could 
be  charmingly  prepossessing  and  brilliant,  but  he  could  just  as  easily 
turn  an  ill-humored  side  foremost. 

During  the  whole  time  of  this  cure  I  visited  Herder  morning  and  even- 
mg;  I  even  remained  whole  days  with  him,  and  in  a  short  time  accus- 
tomed myself  so  much  the  more  to  his  chiding  and  fault-finding,  as  I 
dailj'  learned  to  appreciate  his  beautiful  and  great  qualities,  his  exten- 
sive knowledge,  and  his  profound  views.  The  influence  of  this  good 
natured  blusterer  was  great  and  important.  He  was  five  years  older 
than  myself,  which  in  younger  days  makes  a  great  difference  to  begin 
with;  and  as  I  acknowledged  him  for  what  he  was,  and  tried  to  value 
that  which  he  had  already  produced,  he  necessarily  gained  a  great  supe- 
riority over  me.  But  the  situation  was  not  comfortable;  for  older  per- 
sons, with  whom  T  had  associated  hitherto,  had  sought  to  form  me  with 
indulgence,  perhaps  had  even  spoiled  me  by  their  lenity;  but  from  Her- 
der, behave  as  one  might,  one  could  never  expect  approval.  As  now, 
on  the  one  side,  my  great  affection  and  reverence  for  him,  and,  on  the 
other,  the  discontent  which  he  excited  in  me,  were  continually  at  strife 
with  each  other,  there  arose  within  me  an  inward  struggle,  tlie  first  of 
its  kind  which  I  had  experienced  in  my  life.  Since  his  conversations 
were  at  all  times  important,  whether  he  asked,  answered,  or  communi- 
cated his  opinions  in  any  other  manner,  he  could  not  but  advance  me 
daily,  nay,  hourly,  to  new  views. 

We  have  been  the  more  willing  to  prolong  our  condensations 
fi'om  this  part  of  Goethe's  autobiography,  because  they  not 
only  exhibit  in  striking  testimonial  from  the  highest  author- 
ity the  comniandiiig  intellectual  and  moral  worth  of  Herder, 
but  also,  in  doing  this,  let  Goethe,  by  anticipation,  make  an 
interesting  and,  on  the  whole,  highly  favorable  impression  of 
himself.  Goethe's  is  a  great  name  in  German  literature, 
which,  in  its  own  place,  will  demand  large  room  for  its  due 


Herder.  Ill 

proportionate  display.  The  whole  of  German  literary  his- 
tory may  be  regarded  as  a  vista  leading  up  to  Goethe,  Let 
us  do  what  we  properly  can  to  show  him  by  occasional 
glimpses  on  the  way. 

If,  in  accordance  with  Richter's  suggestion,  Herder  was 
rather  a  poem  than  a  poet,  yet  he  did  write  poetry  as  well 
as  prose.  His  most  considerable  j^roduction  in  verse  was  a 
treatment  of  the  theme  of  the  Cid.  We  have  no  space  to  show 
any  thing  more  than  a  very  short  flight  of  Herder's  muse. 
This,  however,  shall  be  in  a  piece  that  admirably  illustrates 
the  elevation  and  seriousness  of  his  character.  And  yet  it 
is  a  skating  song.  Klopstock  seems  to  have  set  the  fashion 
that  made  skating  so  popular  a  recreation  among  cultivated 
people  in  Germany.  Goethe,  after  him,  was  an  enthusiastic 
skater.  The  assertion  may  with  confidence  be  hazarded  that 
there  was  never  a  lyric  on  sport  of  any  kind  pitched  in  a  key 
loftier  than  that  of  the  following  skating  song  by  Herder. 
It  will  be  observed  that  a  strong  homiletic  bias  seems  to  em- 
barrass somewhat  the  free  lyric  swing  of  our  poet.  He  mor- 
alizes his  song,  drawing,  with  not,  it  must  be  admitted,  the 
most  brilliant  success,  an  analogy  between  skating  and  liv- 
ing. We  use  Mr.  C.  T.  Brooks's  version,  but  shorten  by 
omitting  two  of  the  stanzas: 

Away  and  away  o'er  the  deep-sounding  tide 
On  crystals  of  silver  we  sweep  and  we  glide : 
The  steel  is  our  pinion,  our  roof  the  broad  blue, 
And  heav'n's  pure  breezes  our  pathway  pursue. 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  glide  and  we  sweep 
'Away  and  away  over  life's  brazen  deep. 


Look  up,  now!  How  sparkles  that  blue  sea  on  iiigh; 
And  below  us,  in  frost,  gleams  a  star-lighted  sky. 
For  He  who  with  suns  studded  lieaven  o'erhead, 
Bieneath  us  a  frost-flowered  meadow  hath  spread. 
So,  joyfully,  brothers,  we  float  and  we  glide 
Through  life's  starry  meadows  awaj'^  far  and  wide. 

He  made  us  this  palace  so  airy  and  wide 
And  gave  us  steel  feet  amid  dangers  to  glide; 


112  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

lu  the  frosts  of  mid-winter  he  kindles  our  blood; 
We  hover,  we  sweep,  o'er  the  treacherous  flood. 
So,  fearlessly,  brothers,  steel-hearted,  we  sweep 
O'er  the  sounding  abysses  of  life's  stormy  deep. 

Let  us  go  at  once  to  Herder's  jirose.  This  is  in  quantity 
sufficiently  ample.  Sixty  volumes,  in  one  edition,  his  printed 
productions  fill.  But  in  all  those  sixty  volumes — full  of 
thought,  quick  and  quickening  thought,  as  they  are — there 
is,  we  repeat,  no  single  production  generally  reckoned  a  true 
literary  masterpiece.  Herder's  mind  was  too  eager,  too  ver- 
satile, too  enterprising,  too  fond  of  forward  movement,  of 
pioneering,  of  adventure,  to  have  the  long  patience  neces- 
sary for  the  elaboration  of  a  completely  rounded  and  finished 
literary  work.  He  loved  best  of  all  to  be  a  life-giving  force 
to  other  minds.  He  was  by  eminence,  as  by  eminence  he 
chose  to  be,  a  teacher, 

Herdei-'s  best  book  Goethe  pronounced  to  be  his  Ideas  to- 
VKird  a  Philosophy  of  History  ;  and  this  judgment  the  com- 
mon opinion  of  critics  has  confirmed.  Of  Herder's  Philosophy 
of  History,  accordingly,  we  shall  do  most  wisely  to  give  here 
some  account — necessarily  a  very  meagre  account  it  must  be. 

The  aim  of  this  work  is  nothing  less  than  to  reduce  the 
whole  of  human  history  to  the  unity  and  the  orderly  progress 
of  a  development.  The  human  race  is,  by  an  eftbrt  of  phil- 
osophic and  imaginative  historic  generalization,  conceived 
as  a  complex  individual,  having  its  infancy,  its  youth,  its 
maturity.  The  idea  is  almost  an  anticipation,  in  the  historic 
realm,  of  the  idea  of  evolution — that  master-thought  of  cur- 
rent speculation  in  science  and  philosophy  with  which  we 
are  now  all  so  familiar.  Like  the  true  German,  Herder  be- 
gins, widely  and  remotely,  with  tlie  earth  itself,  man's  abode, 
as  a  member  of  the  system  of  the  universe.  He  wishes  to 
be  thorough,  comprehensive,  exhaustive.  If  the  truth  must 
be  told,  all  the  earlier  part  of  his  work  is  as  dry,  and  much 
of  it  is  as  barren,  as  it  is  ambitious  and  profound.  Of  the 
breadth  and  scope  of  the  treatment,  some  stimulating  idea 
may  be  formed  from  the  titles  to  a  few  of  the  chapters. 


Herder.  113 

Astronomy,  Geology,  Physical  Geography,  appear  succes- 
sively in  those  of  the  first  "  Book,"  as  the  following  citations 
will  show: 

1.  Our  Earth  is  a  Star  among  Stars.  2.  Our  Earth  is  one  of  the  middle 
Planets.  3.  Our  Earth  has  undergone  niauj'  Revolutions  ere  it  became 
what  it  now  is.  4.  Oiu"  Earth  is  an  Orb,  which  revolves  round  its  own 
Axis,  and  in  oblique  direction  toward  the  Sun.  5.  Our  Earth  is  enveloped 
with  an  .Vtmosphere,  and  is  in  conflict  with  several  of  ihe  celestial  Bodies. 
6.  The  Planet  Ave  inhabit  is  an  Earth  of  Mountains  rising  above  the 
Surface  of  the  "Waters.  7.  The  Direction  of  the  Mountains  renders  our 
two  Hemispheres  a  Theatre  of  tlie  most  singular  Variety  and  Change. 

Subsequent  books  treat  of  the  animal  and  the  vegetable 
creation  in  relation  to  the  organization  of  man,  of  the  supe- 
riority of  man  to  every  other  animate  creature,  and  so  forth 
and  so  forth.  No  thoughtful  person  can  barely  glance  over 
the  table  of  contents  without  feeling  that  here  wrought  a  mind 
of  aspiring  ambition,  if  not  of  masterly  power,  to  grasp  and 
to  wield  material  to  its  purpose.  Except,  however,  to  the 
very  thoughtful,  and  withal  very  studious,  person,  the  prom- 
ise held  out  is  not  of  highly  entertaining  discussion.  It  is 
not  till  Herder  advances  to  treat,  in  his  wide  comparative 
way,  particular  races  of  men  and  particular  periods  of  his- 
tory, that  ho  becomes  at  all  interesting  to  the  general  reader. 
He  then  reminds  you  of  Montesquieu,  to  whom  indeed 
Herder,  as  he  himself  acknowledges,  is  not  a  little  indebted 
for  suggestion  and  lead  in  the  path  which  he  follows. 

Of  the  really  religious,  while  quasi-deistic,  spirit  in  which 
Herder  conducted  his  philosophic  inquiries,  the  work  itself  as 
a  whole  is  a  monumental  witness.  The  following  sentences 
from  the  preface  exhibit  this  spirit  in  distinct  expression: 

Tims,  Great  Being,  Invisible,  Supreme  Disposer  of  our  race,  I  lay  at 
thy  feet  the  most  imperfect  work  that  mortal  ever  wrote,  in  which  he 
has  ventured  to  trace  and  follow  thy  steps.  Its  leaves  may  decay  and  its 
characters  vanish  ;  forms  after  forms,  too,  in  which  I  have  discerned 
traces  of  thee,  and  endeavored  to  exhibit  them  to  my  brethren,  may  mold- 
er  into  dust ;  but  thy  purposes  will  remain,  and  thou  wilt  gradually  un- 
fold them  to  thy  creatures,  and  exhibit  them  in  nobler  forms.     Happy  if 


114  .Classic  German   Course  in  JbJnglish. 

llien  these  leaves  sliall  be  swallowed  up  in  the  stream  of  oblivion,  and  in 
tlieir  stead  clearer  ideas  rise  in  the  mind  of  man. 

The  enormous  breadth  and  inckision  of  Herder's  plan  is 
impressively  shown  in  the  mere  list  of  the  nations  whose  his- 
tory he  treats  in  separate  chapters.  You  may  count  these 
literally  by  scores. 

Opening  his  volumes  at  hazard,  in  that  portion  of  their 
contents  in  which  Herder  luminously  discusses  the  histoiy  of 
the  Romans,  we  light  on  the  following  remarkable  expres- 
sion, rhapsodic  almost  to  the  point  of  grammatical  incoher- 
ence. This,  as  will  naturally  occur  to  the  student  of 
Momrasen,  substantially  anticipates  that  hero-worshiping 
historian's  enthusiastic  appreciation  of  Julius  Csesar: 

When  in  the  throng  of  battle  or  in  the  tumult  of  the  forum  the  coun- 
tenance of  Ctesar  retains  its  constant  serenity,  and  his  heart  beats  with 
magnanimous  clemency  even  toward  his  enemies;  great  man.  even  with 
all  the  vices  into  which  levity  led  thee,  if  thou  didst  not  deserve  to  be 
monarch  of  Rome,  no  man  ever  did!  But  Csesar  was  more  than  this;  he 
was  C;esar.  The  highest  throne  on  earth  decorated  itself  with  his  name- 
0  that  it  could  have  adorned  itself  with  his  spirit  also!  that  for  ages  it 
could  have  been  animated  with  the  benevolent,  vigilant;  compreliensive 
mind  of  Csesar ! 

The  latter  part  of  the  work  is  largely  occupied  with  the 
history  of  the  propagation  of  Christianity.  This  subject  is 
treated  in  the  calm,  dispassionate,  rational  spirit  of  the  de- 
istical  philosopher  calling  himself  and,  whether  truly  or  not, 
supposing  himself.  Christian.  Herder  was  certainly  a  de- 
vout man,  but  as  certainly  he  was  not  a  Christian,  in  tlie 
sense  of  being  an  evangelical  Christian,  so-called.  He  was  a 
rationalist,  and  the  fountain-head  of  theological  rationalism 
in  Germany.  This,  in  the  view  of  those  who,  bearing  Avhat- 
ever  sectarian  name,  inherit  from  him  the  spirit  of  rational- 
ism in  religion,  is  Herder's  praise.  Herder's  character  it  is, 
at  any  rate,  in  the  view  of  all  who  judge  him  according  to 
the  truth. 

To  exhibit  the  attitude — rather,  it  will  be  observed,  that  of 
dionified,    self-centred    reverence,    as   toward    a   man,  than 


Herder.  115 

that  of  supreme  devotion  and  worship,  as  toward  a  divine 
being — assumed  by  Herder  in  presence  of  Jesus  Christ,  we 
quote  the  following  personal  apostrophe  to  him,  occurring  at 
the  close  of  a  sort  of  preface  or  pi*oem  to  that  section  of 
his  work  in  which  the  author  begins  to  treat  of  the  his- 
tory of  Christianity: 

With  reverence  I  bend  before  thy  noble  form,  lliou  head  and  founder 
of  a  kingdom  so  great  in  its  object,  so  durable  in  its  extent,  so  simple  and 
animated  in  its  principles,  so  efficacious  in  its  motives,  that  the  sphere  of 
this  terrestrial  life  appears  too  narrow  for  it.  Nowhere  in  history  find  I 
a  revolution  so  quietly  efiected  in  so  short  a  time,  planted  in  such  a  sin- 
gular manner  by  feeble  instruments,  propagated  over  all  the  earth  with 
yet  indeterminable  effect,  and  cultivated  so  as  to  produce  good  or  bad 
fruit,  as  that,  which  has  spread  among  nations  under  the  name,  not 
properly  of  thy  religion,  that  is  to  say,  of  thy  vital  scheme  for  the  welfare 
of  mankind,  but  mostly  of  thy  worship,  that  is,  an  unreflecting  adoration 
of  thy  cross  and  person.  Thy  penetrating  mind  foresa\^  this;  and  it  is 
dishonoring  thy  name  to  afiSx  it  to  every  turbid  stream  from  thy  pure 
fountain.  We  will  avoid  it  as  much  as  possible ;  thy  placid  form  shall 
stand  alone  before  the  whole  history,  that  takes  its  rise  from  thee. 

The  whole  treatment  of  this  important  topic  of  Herder's 
discussion  is  very  much  in  the  tone  and  manner  of  Professor 
Seeley's  J^cce  Homo. 

Finally,  we  may  display  at  once  the  entire  scheme  of 
Herder's  Philosophy  of  History  by  condensing  here  his 
chapter  of  general  reflections  on  the  history  of  Greece. 
The  instance  of  Greece,  he  says  himself,  presents  a  kind  of 
microcosm  of  the  history  of  humanity  at  large.  The  process 
of  historic  evolution,  complete,  may  thus,  according  to  Her- 
der, be  studied  here  in  an  example  existing  on  a  scale  conve- 
niently reduced.  Let  us  begin  with  Herder's  statement  of 
what  he  calls  his  "first  grand  principle:  " 

Whatever  can  take  place  am.ong  manJdnd,  vnthin  the  sphere  of  given 
circumstances  of  time,  place,  and  nation,  actually  does  take  place. 

Of  this  Greece  affords  the  amplest  and  most  beautiful  proofs.  .  .  .  The 
whole  history  of  mankind  is  a  pure  natural  history  of  human  powers, 
actions,  and  propensities,  modified  by  time  and  place.  .  .  . 

This  philo.sophy  will  firat  and  most  eminently  guard  ns  from  attributing 
the  facts  that  appear  in  history  to    the  particular  hidden  purposes  of  a 


116  Classic  Gennan  Course  in  English. 

scheme  of  tilings  unknown  to  us,  or  tlie  magical  influence  of  invisible 
powers  which  we  would  not  venture  to  name  in  connection  with,  natural 
phenomena.  .  .  . 

Why  did  enlightened  Greeks  appear  in  the  world?  It  was  because 
Greeks  existed,  and  existed  under  such  circumstances  that  tliey  could  not 
be  otherwise  than  enlightened.  Why  did  Alexander  invade  India?  Be- 
cause he  was  Alexander,  the  son  of  Philip;  and  from  the  dispositions  his 
father  liad  made,  the  deeds  of  his  nation,  his  age  and  character,  his.reading 
of  Homer,  etc.,  knew  nothing  better  that  he  could  undertake.  But  if  we 
attribute  his  bold  resolution  to  the  secret  purpose  of  some  superior  power, 
and  his  heroic  achievements  to  his  peculiar  fortune,  we  run  the  hazard, 
on  the  one  hand,  of  exalting  his  most  senseless  and  atrocious  actions 
into  designs  of  the  Deity,  and,  on  the  other,  of  detractiug  from  his  personal 
courage  and  military  skill,  while  we  deprive  the  whole  occurrence  of  its 
natural  form.  .  .  .  Historj^  is  the  soieuce  of  what  is,  not  of  what  possibly 
may  be  according  to  the  hidden  designs  of  fate. 

Secondly.  What  is  true  of  one  people  holds  equally  true  with  regard  to  the 
connection  of  m!veral  together — they  are  joined  as  time  and  p'lo-ce  unite  them; 
they  act  upon  one  another  as  the  combination  of  active  powers  directs. 

We  are  incorporating  the  present  condensation  of  Herder's 
general  reflections  on  the  histor}''  of  Greece,  not  because 
these  reflections  constitute  the  most  vividly  interesting  thing 
that  we  could  produce  out  of  the  work — this  is  far  from  be- 
ing the  case — but  because  they  are  in  the  highest  degree 
representative  of  his  attempted  philosopliy  of  history.  If  we 
should  speak  out  our  own  individual  mind  on  the  point,  we 
should  have  to  say  that  Herder's  great  principles  sometimes — 
for  example,  in  the  case  of  the  one  last  given — seem  to  us 
chiefly  futile  and  barren  truisms.  We  omit  Herder's  expan- 
sion and  exemplification  of  his  second  great  principle,  and 
go  on  to  the  third.     He  says: 

Thirdly.  Tlie  cultivation  of  a  people  is  tlee  flower  of  its  existence;  its  dis- 
play is  pleasing  indeed,  but  transitory. 

.  .  .  The  cultivation  of  Greece  grew  with  time,  place,  and  circum- 
stances, and  declined  with  them.  Poetry  and  certain  arts  preceded  phil- 
osophy ;  where  oratory  or  the  fine  arts  flourished,  neither  the  patriotic 
virtues  nor  the  martial  spirit  could  shine  with  their  liighest  splendor;  the 
orators  of  Athens  displayed  the  greatest  enthusiasm  when  the  state  drew 
near  its  end  and  its  integrity  was  no  more. 

But  all  kinds  of  iiuman  knowledge  have  this  in  common,  that  each  aims 


Herder.  117 

at  a  point  of  perfection  which,  when  attained  by  a  concatenation  of  furt- 
nnate  circumstances,  it  can  neither  preserve  to  eternity,  nor  can  it  in- 
stantly retnrn,  but  a  decreasing  series  commences. 

.  .  .  Wiien  Homer  had  sung,  no  second  Homet  in  the  same  path  could 
be  conceived ;  he  plucked  the  flower  of  the  epic  garland,  and  ^dl  who  fol- 
lowed must  content  themselves  with  a  few  leaves.  Thus  the  Greek 
tragedians  chose  anotlier  track;  they  ate,  as  jSlschylus  says,  at  Homer's 
table,  but  prepared  for  their  guests  a  different  feast.  They  too  had  their 
day ;  the  subjects  of  tragedy  were  exhausted,  and  their  successors  could 
do  no  more  than  remold  t!ie  greatest  poets,  that  is,  give  them  in  an 
inferior  form;  for  the  best,  the  supremely  beautiful,  form  of  the  Grecian 
drama,  had  already  been  exiiibited  in  those  models.  In  spite  of  all  his 
morality,  Euripides  could  not  rival  Sophocles,  to  say  nothing  of  his  being 
able  to  excel  him  in  the  essence  of  his  art;  and  therefore  the  prudent 
Aristophanes  pursued  a  difterent  course.  Thus  it  was  with  every  species 
of  Grecian  art,  and  thus  it  will  be  in  all  nations — the  very  circumstance 
that  the  Greeks  in  their  most  flourishing  periods  perceived  this  law  of 
nature,  and  sought  not  to  go  beyond  the  highest  in  something  still  higher, 
rendered  their  taste  so  sure,  and  its  development  so  various.  When 
Pliidias  had  created  his  omnipotent  Jove,  a  superior  Jupiter  was  not 
within  the  reach  of  possibility  ;  but  the  conception  was  capable  of  being 
applied  to  other  gods,  and  to  every  god  was  given  his  peculiar  character ; 
thus  this  province  of  art  was  peopled. 

.  .  .  Our  youth  returns  not  again ;  neither  returns  the  action  of  our 
mental  faculties  as  they  then  were.  The  verj'  appearance  of  the  flower  is 
a  sign  that  it  must  fade ;  it  has  drawn  to  itself  the  powers  of  the  plant 
from  the  very  root ;  and  when  it  dies,  the  death  of  the  plant  must  follow. 
Unfortunate  would  it  have  been  could  the  age  that  produced  a  Pericles 
and  a  Socrates  have  been  prolonged  a  moment  beyond  the  time  which 
the  chain  of  events  prescribed  for  its  duration;  for  Athens  it  would  have 
been  a  perilous,  an  insupportable  period.  Equally  confined  would  be  the 
wish  that  the  mytiiology  of  Homer  sliould  have  held  eternal  possession 
of  the  human  mind,  the  gods  of  the  Greeks  have  reigned  to  infinity, 
and  their  Demosthenes  have  thundered  forever.  Every  plant  in  nature 
must  fade;  but  the  fading  plant  scatters  abroad  its  seeds,  and  thus  reno- 
vates the  living  creation. 

Shakespeare  was  no  Sophocles,  Milton  no  Homer,  Bolingbroke  no  Peri- 
cles, yet  they  were  in  their  kind,  and  in  their  situation,  what  those  were 
in  theirs.  Let  every  one,  therefore,  strive  in  his  place  to  be  what  he  can 
be  in  the  course  of  things ;  this  he  will  be,  and  to  be  any  thing  else  is 
impossible. 

Why  "  every  one  "  should  "  strive  "  to  be  that  which  lie  inev- 
itably "will  be,"  is  not  so  clear  to  the  present  writer's  mind 


118  Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 

as,  let  us  hope,  it  was  to  the  mind  of  Herder.  Herder's  doc- 
trine of  historic  necessity,  or  fate,  is  adapted  to  be  more 
satisfactory  to  the  anti- Christian,  than  to  the  Christian,  evo- 
lutionist. We  have  seen  pantheism,  as  a  derivation  from 
Spinoza,  attributed  to  Herder.  Atheism,  rather,  his  reader 
might  suspect  to  have  been  the  dominating  spirit  of  Herder's 
philosophy  of  history;  such  curious  anxiety  he  manifests  to 
exclude  the  Great  Being,  for  whom,  in  words — sincere  words, 
doubtless — he  professes  unspeakable  adoration,  from  any  act- 
ive share  in  the  concerns  of  his  universe  or  in  the  on-goings  of 
history.  But,  as  we  said.  Herder's  religious  point  of  view 
is  that  of  the  devout  deist. 

Our  next  citation,  and  our  last,  from  this  work  shall  be 
Herder's /b?<r<A great  "principle" — which,  without  comment, 
we  leave  to  the  leisurely  digestion  of  our  readers: 

Fourthly.  The  health  and  duration  of  a  state  rest  not  on  that  point  of  its 
highest  cultivation,  hut  on  a  wise  or  fortunate  equilibrium  of  its  active  living 
powers.  Tlie  deeper  in  this  living  exertion  its  centre  of  gravity  lies,  the  more 
firm,  and  durable  it  is. 

We  have  called  Herder's  spirit  in  the  present  work  dispas- 
sionate and  calm.  This  characterization,  however,  is  true, 
rather  of  the  matter,  than  of  the  manner,  of  what  he  says. 
He  is  not  seldom  oratorio  in  his  style;  he  even  tends  to  swell 
into  the  grandiose  and  turgid.  The  merit  of  the  whole  work 
is  in  fairness  to  be  estimated  with  constant  regard  to  the 
fact  that  the  author  was,  to  a  considerable  extent,  finding  his 
own  path  in  a  new,  untrodden  field  of  philosophic  inquiry. 
That  Herder  was  not  strictly  original  in  his  idea  of  history, 
as  subject  to  a  law  of  development,  as  enfolding  within  itself 
a  principle  of  philosophy,  we  have  already  pointed  out. 
Montesquieu  was  before  Herder  in  this,  as  Bossuet  in  it  was 
perhaps  before  Montesquieu.  But  the  first  man  to  attempt 
actually  forcing  this  expansile  and  resistant  idea  into  the 
forms  and  terms  of  a  system,  was  Herder.  And  Herder's 
Philosophy  of  History,  never  quite  completed  according  to 
the  plan  of  the  author,  is  still  a  standard  treatise  on  its 
subject. 


Herder.  119 

We  feel  that  we  ought  not  to  dismiss  Herder  without 
adding  yet  a  citation  or  two  that  may  serve  to  suggest  some- 
thing of  the  versatility  of  his  genius.  Herder  was  a  critic. 
Of  his  critical  quality,  let  the  following  parallel  of  his 
between  Klopstock  and  Milton  stand  for  illustration.  We 
might  find  an  example  better  adapted  to  exhibit  his  bold- 
ness and  his  suggestiveness ;  hardly  perliaps  any  more  likely 
to  interest  our  readers.  We  use  the  translation  of  W. 
Taylor : 

"We  are  accustomed  to  call  Klopstock  the  German  Milton ;  I  wish  they 
were  never  named  together,  and  that  Klopstock  had  never  known  Milton. 
Both  have  written  sacred  poesj,  but  they  were  not  inspired  by  the  same 
Urania.  They  bear  to  each  other  the  relation  that  Moses  bears  to  Christ, 
or  the  old  to  the  new  covenant.  The  edifice  of  Milton  is  a  steadfast  and 
well-planned  building,  resting  on  ancient  columns.  Klopstock's  is  an 
enchanted  dome,  echoing  with  the  softest  and  purest  tones  of  human 
feeling,  hovering  between  heaven  and  earth,  borne  on  angels'  shoulders. 
Milton's  muse  is  masculine,  and  harsh  as  his  iambics.  Klopstock's  is  a 
tender  woman,  dissolving  in  pious  ecstasies,  warbling  elegies  and  hymns. 
Klopstock  had  studied  deeply  the  language  of  his  country,  and  won  for  it 
more  powers  than  the  Briton  ever  suspected  his  to  possess.  A  single  ode 
of  Klopstock  outweighs  the  whole  lyric  literature  of  Britain.  Tiie  Herman 
of  this  writer  awaked  a  spirit  of  simple  nervous  song,  far  loftier  than 
that  wiiich  animates  the  chorus-dramas  of  antiquity.  The  Samson  of 
Milton  attains  not  these  models.  When  music  shall  acquire  among  us 
the  higliest  powers  of  her  art,  whose  words  will  she  select  to  utter  but 
those  of  Klopstock  ? 

Herder  was  a  writer  of  parables;  allegories  or  fables 
they  were,  conceived  by  him  in  the  Oriental  ratlier  than  in 
the  ancient  Greek  or  Roman  spirit.  Of  these  serious  recrea- 
tive pieces  of  Herder,  we  regret  to  say  that  we  can  spare  no 
room  for  even  a  single  specimen. 

Already  it  is  time  that  we  bow  ourselves  respectfully  out 
of  this  most  unbendingly  august  of  the  presences  to  be  found 
in  the  halls  of  German  letters.  We  cannot  do  so  more  ap- 
propriately than  by  quoting,  condensed,  the  words  of  hail 
and  farewell  nobly  pronounced  by  Richter  in  one  of  his 
books  on  occasion  of  Herder's  death.  These  two  kindred 
though  differing  spirits  loved  each  the  other  as  his  own  soul. 


120  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Richter  came  to  Weimar  that  he  might  be  near  Herder;  and 
Herder  leaned  on  Richter  as  Paul  did  on  Timothy,  A  loftier 
strain,  more  pathetic,  of  funereal  triumph,  has  seldom  been 
chanted  by  the  voice  of  friendship  and  genius,  than  that 
which  Richter  here  lifts  np,  in  clear  and  steady  tenor,  over 
the  just-closed  grave  of  Plerder. 

Having  said  this,  we  need  to  prepare  our  readers  against 
a  first  disappointment.  This  mingled  wail  and  eulogy  from 
Richter  will  seem  to  them  written  in  a  strange,  almost  an 
outlandish,  style.  It  will  puzzle  and  confound  at  first.  Read 
it  thoughtfully,  read  it  studiously,  read  it  repeatedly.  It  will 
need,  and  it  will  repay,  the  pains.  Return  to  it  after  having 
gone  through  the  chapter  to  follow,  that  devoted  to  the  study 
of  Richter,  and  see  if  then  this  strain,  which  to  us  seems  of  a 
mournful  and  triumphing  beauty  so  rare,  does  not  take  pos- 
session also  of  your  sentiment  and  imagination : 

Tliat  noble  spirit  was  misunderstood  by  opposite  times  and  parties,  yet 
not  entirely  without  fault  of  his  own.  For  he  had  the  fault  that  he  was  no 
star  of  tirst,  or  of  any  other,  magnitude,  but  a  clump  of  stars  out  of  wliich 
each  one  spells  a  constellation  to  please  himself.  .  .  . 

If  he  was  no  poet,  as  he  often,  indeed,  thought  of  himself — and  also 
of  otlier  very  celebrated  people — standing  as  he  did  close  by  the  Homeric 
and  Shakespearean  standard,  then  he  was  merely  something  better, 
namely,  &  poem,  an  Indian-Greek  e])os  made  by  some  purest  god.  .  .  . 

In  his  beautiful  soul,  precisely  as  in  a  poem,  every  thing  coalesced,  and 
the  good,  the  true,  the  beautiful,  constituted  an  inseparable  trinity.  .  .  . 
He  wished  to  see  the  sacrifices  of  poesj'  as  fair  and  undefiled  as  the  thun- 
der of  heaven  permits  to  scathed  humanity.  .  .  . 

Few  minds  are  learned  after  the  same  grand  fashion  as  he.  .  .  .  Many 
are  clasped  by  their  learning  as  by  a  withering  ivy,  but  he  as  by  a  grape- 
vine. .  .  . 

He  exhibited  the  Greek  humanity,  to  wliich  he  restored  the  name,  in 
the  most  tender  regard  for  all  pvfrely  human  relations,  and  in  his  Lutheran 
indignation  against  all  whereby  they  were  poisoned,  however  sanctioned 
by  Church  and  State.  He  was  a  fort  overgrown  with  flowers,  a  nortliern 
oak  whose  branches  were  sensitive  plants.  How  gloriouslj'^  irreconcilable 
he  burned  against  everj'  creeping  soul,  against  all  looseness  and  self-contra- 
diction, dishonesty,  and  poetical  slime-softness;  as  also  against  German 
critical  rudeness  and  all  sceptres  in  paws;  and  how  he  exorcised  the  ser- 
pents of  his  time!     But  would  you  iiear  the  softest  of  voices,  it  was  liis 


Herder.  121 

in  love — whether  for  a  child,  or  for  a  poem,  or  for  music — or  in  mercy 
for  the  weak.  He  resembled  his  frieud  Hamann,  who  was  at  once  a  hero 
and  a  child,  who,  like  an  electrized  person  in  the  dark,  stood  harmless, 
with  a  glorj'  encircling  his  head,  until  a  touch  drew  the  lightning  from 
him.  .  .  . 

Altogether,  he  was  little  weighed  and  little  estimated;  and  onl}'  in 
particulars,  not  in  the  whole.  That  task  remains  for  the  diamond-scales 
of  posterity.  .  .  .  His  life  was  a  shining  e.xcepiion  to  the  ofttinies  tainted 
endowment  of  genius;  he  sacrificed,  like  the  ancient  priests,  even  at  the 
altar  of  the  muses,  only  with  white  garments. 

He  seems  to  me  now — much  as  death  usually  lifts  men  up  into  a  holy 
transfiguration — in  his  present  distance  and  elevation,  no  more  shining 
than  formerlj'^,  by  my  side,  here  below.  I  imagine  him  yonder,  behind 
the  stars,  precisely  in  his  right  place,  and  but  little  changed,  his  griefs 
excepted.  Well,  then,  celebrate  right  festively  yonder  thy  harvest- feast, 
thou  pure,  thou  spirit-friend !  May  thy  coronal  of  heavy  wheat-ears 
blossom  on  thy  head  into  alight  flower-chapletl  thou  sunflower,  trans- 
planted to  th3'  sun  at  last ! 

In  his  song  to  the  night,  he  says  to  his  sleeping  body: 

Slumber  well  meanwhile,  thou  sluggish  burdca 
Of  my  earthly  walk.     Her  mantle 
Over  thee  spreads  the  Night,  and  her  lamps 
Burn  above  thee  in  the  holy  pavilion. 

Otherwise,  now,  and  colder,  stands  the  star-night  above  his  mold. 
Alas!  he  who  only  read  him  has  scarcely  lost  him,  but  he  who  knew  and 
loved  him  is  not  to  be  consoled  any  more  by  his  immortality,  but  only  by 
the  immortality  of  the  lumian  soul.  If  tliere  wore  no  such  immortality; 
if  our  whole  life  here  is  only  an  evening  twiliglit  preceding  the  night,  not 
a  morning  twilight;  if  the  lofty  mind  is  also  let  downjafter  the  body  by 
coflSn-ropes  into  the  pit — 0,  tlien  I  know  not  why  we  should  not,  at  the 
graves  of  great  men,  do,  from  despair,  what  the  ancient  savage  nations  did 
from  hope;  that  i.s,  throw  ourselves  after  them  into  the  pit,  as  those  did 
into  tiie  tombs  of  their  princes,  so  that  the  foolish,  violent  heart,  that  will 
obstinately  beat  for  something  divine  and  eternfll,  may  be  choked  at  once. 
...  0,  I  well  know  that  lie  tolerated  such  griefs  least  of  all.  He  would 
point  now  to  the  glittering  stars  of  spring,  above  which  he  now  dwells; 
he  would  beckon  to  us  to  listen  to  the  nightingales  which  now  sing 
to  us  and  not  to  him;   and  he  would  be  more  moved  than  he  seemed 

to  \)Q..  .  .  . 

We  will  now  love  that  great  soul  together,  and  if,  at  times,  we  are 
moved  too  painfully  by  his  memory,  we  will  read  over  again  all  whereby 
he  made  known  to  us  the  immortal  and  divine,  and  himself. 
6 


122  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

There  has  been  of  late  a  revival  of  interest  in  Herder,  and 
the  prospect  is  fair  that  he  will  eventually  be  rehabilitated 
to  something  like  his  contemporary  fame.  Any  change  of 
dominant  taste  tending  to  make  more  of  morals  in  literature, 
and  of  mere  culture,  apart  from  morals,  less,  might  work 
against  Goethe  ;  but  it  would,  to  the  same  degree,  work  in 
Herder's  favor. 


VII. 

R  I  C  H  T  E  R. 
1763-1825. 


The  largest,  softest,  most  loving  heart  in  literature — heart 
pure,  too,  of  the  purest — was  Richter,  Richter  the  unique, 
the  only.  So  the  German  themselves  call  Richter,  and  so, 
much  more,  may  we,  not  Germans,  call  him,  since  with  a 
far  stronger  feeling  than  can  be  theirs  of  his  unexampled 
peculiarity.  Not  quite,  however,  "  Richter  the  Only,"  is  the 
favorite  form  of  the  name.  For  well-nigh  universally  still, 
as  was  the  case  during  his  life-time,  he  is,  among  those  who, 
knowing  him  best,  love  him  most,  affectionately  designated 
(after  his  double  first  name,  Gallicized  by  himself),  "  Jean 
Paul,"  rather  than  Richter. 

To  the  heart-,  great  and  tender,  of  this  man,  w^as  married 
a  brain  only  less  remarkable  for  both  quantity  and  quality. 
Still,  less  remarkable  the  brain  was  than  the  heart,  in  Rich- 
ter ;  and  what  Goethe,  in  German  phrase — phrase  to  be 
transferred  rather  than  translated — spoke  of  as  the  "  eternal 
womanly"  predominated  in  his  character.  But  it  was  a 
most  manly  womanliness.  Richter  was  a  sentimentalist,  but 
he  was  a  sentimentalist  of  a  robust  and  virile  type.  You 
are  not  unbraced  in  reading  him.  On  the  contrary,  you  feel 
him  to  be  tonic.  Richter  is  full  of  ozone,  moral,  but  espe- 
cially intellectual.  He  possesses  the  stimulating  value  of 
difficulty.     It  is  impossible  to  read  him  in  a  lav  and  languid 


Michter.  123 

mental  mood.  You  have  to  gird  up  the  loins  of  your  mind 
to  understand  liim.  His  conceptions  are  unexpected  and  ex- 
traordinary. They  still  take  you  by  surprise.  You  cannot 
get  used  enough  to  Richter  to  calculate  him  beforehand. 
Beyond  all  men  he  has  the  gift  to  "  startle  and  waylay."  If 
Richter  ever  had  a  commonplace  thought,  or  a  commonplace 
association  of  thought,  he  had  it  as  an  awful  secret  to  him- 
self— he  never  breathed  it  to  mortal.  . 

Conceptions  thus  remote  and  unusual,  to  the  very  verge/ 
of  unbalanced  eccentriciiy,  Richter  had  a  vocabulary  and  a   ■ 
syntax  of  his  own,  to  express.     It  is  literally  true  that  there 
was   a  special   Richter  lexicon  published  to  explain  to  his  i 
fellow-countrymen  the  strange  words — his  own  coining,  his  \ 
own   compounding,    or    his    own    polarizing — employed    by 
Richter  in  deliverins;  his  messag-e  to  the  world. 

We  shall  of  course  seem  to  describe  a  not  wholly  pleasing 
writer.  And  a  wholly  pleasing  writer  certainly  Richter  is 
not.  There  is  out-of-the-way  beauty,  but  there  is  out-of-the- 
way  deformity  too.  Grotesqueness  masquerades  hand-in- 
hand  with  grace  everywhei-e  through  Richter's  pages.  You 
wonder  that  a  soul  capable  of  beauty  in  thought  so  ravish- 
ing, should  be  at  the  same  time  capable  of  ugliness  so  un- 
disguised. But  it  is  resthetie,  not  ethical,  ugliness  of  which 
we  speak.  Taste,  not  conscience,  was  wanting  to  Richter. 
He  had  little  sense  of  proportion,  fitness,  form.  He  had  so 
much  material  that  his  material  mastered  him.  He  could  not 
reduce  it  to  order.  He  produced  not  a  cosmos,  but  a  chaos — 
a  chaos,  however,  full  of  every  beauty  save  the  beauty  whicli 
would  have  transferred  all  into  a  cosmos.  Richter's  reason 
was  all  imagination,  and  his  imagination  was  all  fancy.  His 
thouglits  were  images,  images  with  winged  feet.  His  images 
went,  or  flew,  in  pairs.  There  was  first  the  original  idea, 
and  then  its  similitude.  For  every  tiling  in  heaven  or 
eartli  had  its  similitude  witli  Richter.  There  was  never 
anotlier  human  eye  tliat  could  invariably  see  double  like  his. 
"Thick-coming  fancies  "  is  a  phrase  that  seems  made  to  de- 
scribe tlie  j)erj)etual  state  of  tliis  man's  brain.     His  couriers 


124  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

arrived  so  fast  that  he  could  hardly  find  time  to  give  them 
separate  audience.  They  trod  on  one  another's  heels,  and 
mixed  and  confused  their  messages  in  his  ears.  The  conse- 
quence is  that  if — which  you  are  half-tempted  to  think  doubt- 
ful— Richter  succeeds  himself  in  preserving  his  mental  balance 
as  he  writes,  you  at  least  go  near  to  losing  your  mental  bal- 
ance as  you  read.  You  find  it  sheerly  impossible  to  co-ordinate 
into  any  mutual  relation  of  unity  the  discordant  emotions 
awakened.  You  are  enraptured  with  a  form  of  beauty 
almost  divine,  developing  itself  unexpectedly  out  of  the 
most  wanton  grotesque  ;  when,  lo,  while  you  are  still  won- 
dering with  delight,  already  that  evanescent  evolution  has 
dived  and  disappeared  in  the  grotesque  again.  You  are 
irresistibly  moved  to  laughter  at  humor  incalculably  droll, 
but  your  laughter  has  not  half  satisfied  itself  before  the 
wizard  has  reversed  his  wand  and  capriciously  summoned 
you,  beyond  your  power  of  gainsaying,  to  weep. 

But  we  must  not  linger,  seeking  vainly  to  describe  what 
nevertheless  we  fear  we  shall  as  vainly  seek  to  exemplify. 

Richter's  production  was  chiefly,  perhaps  exclusively, 
prose  in  form.  But  no  prose  was  ever  more  instinct  than 
Richter's  with  the  spirit  of  poetry.  His  works  are  valuable, 
not  for  what  they  are,  but  for  what  they  contain.  Not  one 
of  them  all  has  the  merit  of  being  an  organized  and  beautiful 
whole — not  one  produces  on  the  mind  of  the  reader  the  effect 
of  unity.  The  reason  in  the  writer  seems  to  have  been  that, 
as  we  have  intimated,  with  all  his  unbounded  exuberance  of 
fancy,  he  lacked  imagination.  He  saw  things  separately,  or 
rather  in  pairs,  never  together  as  composing  a  "  universal 
frame." 

It  did  not  much  signify  in  what  ostensible  species  of  liter- 
ature such  a  writer  might  choose  to  wreak  himself  upon 
expression.  The  result  in  any  case  Avould  inevitably  be  the 
same.  We  should  have  an  impetuous  torrent  of  thoughts, 
sentiments,  images,  fancies,  rolling  out  confusedly  as  from 
an  inexhaustible  fountain — or  at  times  almost  as  if  from  a 
volcano   in   erui)tion.      The    actual    fact    is,    that    Richter's 


Hichter.  125 

best  works  nre  "  novels,"  of  a  ijeculiar  sort.  Of  these  Hes- 
]?erus  Avas  the  one  that  first  made  its  author  decisively  and 
widely  famous.  The  Invisible  Lodge  was  an  earlier  success. 
Tttan,  however,  a  later  book,  is  generally,  among  Germans, 
held  to  be  Ivichter's  masterpiece.  From  the  Titan,  accord- 
ingly, as  admirably  translated  by  Mr.  C.  T.  Brooks,  we 
present  some  specimen  passages — selected  with  a  view  to 
exhibiting  fairly  both  the  beautiful  and  the  ugly,  of  this 
extraordinary  writer.  We  do  not  exaggerate  when  we  say 
that,  as  for  the  plot,  or  the  course  of  the  story,  in  Richter's 
"novels,"  that  is  literally  almost  undiscoverable,  beneath  the 
luxuriant  overgrowth  of  incidental  thought  and  fancy  which 
constantly  "high  overarched  iinbowers."  The  interest  of 
story  as  story  is  nothing.  It  is  only  what  is  other  than  story 
that  counts.  For  this  reason,  our  citations,  comparatively 
brief  as  they  must  be,  need  not  leave  Richter  in  any  important 
respect,  except  that  of  quantity,  un exemplified.  We  shall 
quite  disregard  the  nariative  of  the  Titan;  but  that  is  exactly 
what  Kichter  himself  does,  and  what,  moreover,  every  one 
who  reads  Richter  in  full  is  virtually  compelled  to  do. 

Take,  for  a  first  specimen,  this  sw^eet,  benignant  sigh  of 
pensive  reflection,  suggested  by  a  scene  of  reconciliation  that 
has  just  been  described: 

Verily,  I  have  often  formed  the  wish — and  afterward  made  a  picture 
out  of  it — that  I  could  be  present  at  all  reconciliations  in  the  world,  be- 
cause no  love  moves  us  so  deeply  as  returning  love.  It  must  touch  im- 
mortals, when  they  see  men,  the  heavy  laden,  and  often  held  so  widely 
asunder  by  fate  or  by  fault,  how,  like  the  Valisneria,  they  will  tear  them- 
selves away  from  the  marshy  bottom,  and  ascend  into  a  fairer  element; 
and  then,  in  the  freer  upper  air,  how  they  will  conquer  the  distance  be- 
tween their  hearts  and  come  together. 

Having  read  now  a  note  which  Richter  subjoins,  turn  back 
and  read  agaii>  the  foregoing  extract.  Hero  is  the  subjoined 
note: 

The  female  Vali.'uieria  lies  rolled  up  under  the  water,  out  of  which  it 
lifts  its  bud,  to  bloom  in  the  open  air:  the  male  then  loosens  itself  from 
the  too  short  stalk  and  swims  to  her  with  its  dry  blossom-dust. 


126  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Richter  made  wide  forays  into  all  literature  and  all  science, 
and  he  never  came  back  without  "  mountains  of  prey "  on 
his  shoulders.  The  allusion  to  the  "  Valisneria  "  is  character- 
istic, alike  of  his  learning,  of  his  fancy,  and  of  his  taste. 
His  method  was  to  make  vast  scrap-book  anthologies  from 
his  reading,  and  he  thus  had  always  at  hand  resource  of  the 
most  varied  illustration.  We  may  as  well  advise  our  readers 
that  fondness  for  Richter  is  with  nearly  all  persons  an  appe- 
tite to  be  acquired,  if  it  is  ever  to  be  possessed  at  all.  In 
our  own  individual  oj^inion,  it  is  an  appetite  good  to  possess, 
notwithstanding  that  to  acquire  the  appetite  will  cost  some 
patience,  and  afterward,  too,  cost  some  leisure — more  leisure, 
in  fact,  than  most  people  cnn  command — to  indulge  it  and  to 
profit  properly  from  indulging  it, 

Albano,  alternatively  called  Zesara  (Caesara),  is  the  young 
hero  of  the  Titan.  He  strides  into  the  story,  radiant  with 
youth  and  health  and  beauty.  Albano,  indeed,  was  over- 
charged with  energy,  and  to  such  a  degree  that  he  was 
"  weary  "  with  it  !  For  such  is  the  extravagant  representa- 
tion of  Richter,  Let  us  introduce  the  passage  in  which  this 
representation  is  made.  It  will  sufficiently  exemplify  that  ex- 
cess which  is  one  of  the  traits  of  this  author: 

Zesara  liad  tasted  only  three  glasses  of  wine ;  but  the  must  of  his 
thick,  hot  blood  fermented  under  it  miglitily.  The  day  grew  more  and 
more  into  a  Daphnian  and  Delphic  grove,  in  whose  whispering  and 
steamy  thicket  he  lost  himself  deeper  and  deeper;  the  sun  hung  in  the 
blue  like  a  white  glistening  snow  ball ;  the  glaciers  [the  scene  is  near  the 
Alps]  cast  their  silvery  glances  down  into  the  green:  from  distant  clouds 
it  thundered  occasionally,  as  if  spring  were  rolling  along  in  his  triumphal 
chariot  far  away  toward  us  at  the  north;  the  living  glow  of  tlie  climate 
and  the  hour,  and  the  holy  fire  of  two  raptures,  the  remembered  and  the 
expected,  warmed  to  life  all  his  powers.  And  now  that  fever  of  young 
health  seized  upon  him  in  which  it  always  seemed  to  him  as  if  a  partic- 
ular heartbeat  in  every  limb;  the  lungs  and  the  heart  are  heavy  and  full 
of  blood;  the  breath  is  hot  as  a  Harmattan  wind  [a  wind  of  Africa,  hot 
and  dry,  named  in  Italy  sirocco],  and  the  eye  dark  in  its  own  blaze,  and 
the  limbs  are  weary  with  energy.  In  this  overcharge  of  the  electrical 
cloud,  he  had  a  peculiar  passion  for  destroying.  When  younger,  he  often 
relieved  himself  by  rolling  fragments  of  rock  to  a  summit  and  letting  them 


Rlchter.  127 

roll  down,  or  by  runuing  on  the  full  gallop  till  his  breath  grew  longer,  or 
most  surely  by  hurting  himself  with  a  penknife  (as  he  had  heard  of  Car- 
dan's doing),  and  even  bleeding  himself  a  little  occasionally.  [(Jardan 
was  an  eccentric  Italian  physician  of  the  sixteenth  century.] 

Richtev  thus  prepares  his  reader  for  an  actual  resort  in 
practice  to  blood-letting,  about  to  be  attributed  on  the  present 
occasion  to  his  hero.  We  may  justly  extenuate  the  Avhimsi- 
cal  extravagance  of  such  a  conception  on  Richter's  part,  by 
remembering  that  he  lived  in  a  time  when  phlebotomy,  as  a 
remedial  measure,  was  habitually  employed  by  physicians. 
Poor  Schiller  had  his  blood  therapeutically  thinned  to  the 
point  of  exhaustion  in  this  way.  From  the  Titan  once  more — 
but  we  need  to  explain  tliat  young  Albano  was  now  alone  in  a 
place  that  reminded  him  tenderly  of  his  mother  long  dead  : 

He  scratched  himself,  but  accidentally  too  deep,  and  with  a  cool  and 
pleasant  exaltation  of  his  more  lightly-breathing  nature,  he  watched  the 
red  fountain  of  his  arm  in  the  setting  sun,  and  became,  as  if  a  burden 
had  fallen  off  from  him,  calm,  sober,  still,  and  tender.  He  thought  of  his 
departed  mother,  whose  love  remained  now  forever  unrequited.  Ah, 
gladly  would  he  have  poured  out  this  blood  for  her. 

Let  us  see  the  Alps  with  the  passionate  Italian  eyes  of 
Albano.  The  youth  has  made  his  approach  to  those  mount- 
ains from  the  other  side,  from  Italy.  The  fancy  strikes  him 
that  he  will  take  in  the  great  panoroma  all  at  once,  and  not 
part  by  part ;  in  Richter's  phrase,  it  shall  be  "  one  single 
draining  draught  from  Nature's  horn  of  plenty."  They 
reach,  climbing — Albano  and  liis  companions — the  proper  ter- 
race for  commanding  the  view,  and  then  one  says  to  Albano, 
"  Now  !  now  ! "  but,  "  No,"  says  Albano,  still  luxurious  in 
his  desire  for  the  brim,  the  rounding,  goblet,  ere  he  drink  at 
all;  "wait  till  the  sun  strikes  it."  Albano  had  bandaged 
his  eyes  to  secure  himself  from  seeing  too  soon.  Now 
Richter: 

At  that  moment  the  morning  wind  flung  up  the  sunlight  gleaming 
through  tlie  dark  twigs,  and  it  flamed  free  on  the  summits,  and  Dian 
snatched  off  the  bandage,  and  said,  "  Look  round  !  "  '•  0  God  !  "  cried  he 
with  a  shriek  of  ecstasy,  as  all  the  gates  of  the  new  heaven  flew  open, 


128  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

and  the  Olympus  of  nature,  with  its  thousand  reposing  gods,  stood 
around  him.  "What  a  world  !  There  stood  the  Alps,  like  brother  giants 
of  the  Old  World,  linked  together,  far  away  in  the  past,  holding  high  up 
over  against  the  sun  the  shining  shields  of  the  glaciers.  The  giants 
wore  blue  girdles  of  forest,  and  at  their  feet  lay  hills  and  vinej^ards,  and 
through  the  aisles  and  arches  of  grape-clusters  the  morning  winds  played 
with  cascadesas  with  watered-silk  ribbons,  and  the  hquid  brimming  mir. 
ror  of  tlie  lake  [Lago  Maggiore]  hung  down  by  the  ribbons  from  the 
mountains,  and  they  fluttered  down  into  the  mirror,  and  a  carved  work 
of  chestnut  woods  formed  its  frame.  .  .  .  Albano  turned  slowlj^  round  and 
round,  looked  into  the  heights,  into  the  depths,  into  the  sun,  into  the  blos- 
soms; and  on  all  summits  burned  the  alarm-fires  of  mighty  jSTature,  and 
in  all  depths  their  reflections — a  creative  earthquake  beat  like  a  heart  under 
the  earth  and  sent  forth  mountains  and  seas.  .  .  .  He  took  .  .  .  the  hands 
of  his  friends  and  pressed  them  to  their  breasts,  that  he  might  not  be  obliged 
to  speak.  The  magnificent  universe  had  painfully  expanded,  and  then  bliss- 
fully overflowed  his  great  breast;  and  now,  when  he  opened  his  eyes,  like 
an  eagle,  wide  and  full,  upon  the  sun,  and  when  the  blinding  brightness 
hid  the  earth,  and  he  began  to  be  lonely,  and  the  earth  became  smoke  and 
.the  sun  a  soft,  white  world,  wliich  gleamed  only  around  the  margin — then 
did  his  whole,  full  soul,  like  a  thunder-cloud,  burst  asunder  and  burn  and 
weep,  and  from  the  pure,  white  sun  his  mother  looked  upon  him,  and  iu 
the  fire  and  smoke  of  the  earth  his  father  and  his  life  stood  veiled. 

Silently  he  went  down  the  terraces,  often  passing  his  hand  across  his 
moist  eyes  to  wipe  away  the  dazzling  shadow  which  danced  on  all  the 
summits  and  all  the  steps. 

If  you  do  not  like  the  foregoing  passage  at  first,  try  reading 
it  again,  and  yet  again — perhaps  even  once  more,  after  that. 
Do  you  still  not  like  it?  Then  you  do  not  like  Richter — at 
least,  not  in  his  descriptive  dithyrambics ;  for,  place  him  in 
the  presence  of  a  noble  aspect  of  nature  to  be  described,  and. 
such  as  the  foregoing  displays  him  is  Richter.  The  sentiment 
of  nature,  which  was  almost  nothing  to  the  ancient  Greek 
and  Roman  world,  finds  here  an  expression  ardent  beyond 
the  ardor  of  Rousseau ;  and  Rousseau's  flame  it  probably 
was  that  kindled  Richter's.  Truth  requires  us  now  to  add 
that  the  Alps  thus  described  by  him  Richter  had  never  seen, 
except  through  the  eyes  of  others. 

Contagiously  inspiring  is  the  vehement  moral  indignation 
of  which  Richter  on  occasion  is  capable.     Read  the  passage 


Richter.  129 

we  next  oflFer,  considering  the  wliile  whose  portrait  it  prob- 
ably is  that,  under  an  alias,  is  tliereiii  drawn,  and  you  will 
not  wonder  ihat  Goethe — of  whom  Mr.  Lowell  well  said  that 
his  "  poetic  sense  was  a  Minotaur"  (the  Minotaur  was  a  fabu- 
lous monster  that  yearly  devoured  seven  maidens) — you  will 
not  wonder,  we  say,  that  Goethe  did  not  like  Kichter, 
"  Painted  egotism  and  unpainted  skepticism,"  Richter  de- 
clared that  he  found  in  Weimar;  and  what  was  Weimar? 
Goethe  might  fitly  have  useil  Louis  Fourteenth's  formula, 
and  claimed,  "  It  is  L"  Patriot,  too,  enough,  as  Avell  as  Puri- 
tan enough,  was  Richter,  to  say,  to  the  deep  displeasure  of 
Goethe — who,  of  course,  could  not  but  take  to  himself  what 
was  so  manifestly  his  own — that  the  times  needed  in  Germany, 
"  not  a  Propertius,  but  a  Tyi-tieus — "  that  is,  not  a  pander 
poet  of  luxury  and  licentiousness,  but  a  poet  with  trumpet 
and  with  bugle  voice  summoning  to  freedom  and  to  virtue. 
Richter,  in  the  following  powerful  description,  portrays  a 
character  of  his  novel: 

...  He  plunged  into  good  and  bad  dissipations  and  amours,  and  after- 
ward represented  on  paper  or  on  the  stage  every  thing  that  he  repented 
or  blessed ;  and  every  representation  made  him  grow  more  and  more  hollow, 
as  abysses  have  been  left  in  the  sun  by  ejected  worlds.  His  heart  could 
not  do  without  the  holy  sensibilities;  but  they  were  simply  a  new  luxury', 
a  tonic,  at  best;  and  precisely  in  proportion  to  their  height  did  the  road 
run  down  the  more  abruptly  into  the  s^lough  of  the  unholiest  ones.  As,  in 
tlie  dramatic  poet,  angelically  pure  and  hlthy  scenes  stand  in  conjunction 
and  close  succession,  so  in  his  life;  he  foddered,  as  in  Surinam  [alter- 
native name  for  Dutch  Guiana  in  South  America],  his  hogs  with  pine- 
apples;  like  the  elder  giants,  he  had  soaring  wings  and  creeping  snakes'- 
feet. 

Unfortunate  is  the  female  soul  whicli  loses  its  way,  and  is  caught  in 
one  of  these  great  webs  stretched  out  in  mid  heaven  ;  and  happy  is  she, 
wlien  she  tears  through  them,  unpoisoned,  and  merely  soils  her  bees'- 
wings.  But  this  all-powerful  fancj',  this  streaming  love,  this  softness  and 
strength,  this  all-mastering  coolness  and  collectedness,  will  overspread 
every  female  Psyche  with  webs,  if  she  neglects  to  brush  away  the  first 
tiu-eads.  0  that  I  could  warn  you,  poor  maidens,  against  such  condor.s, 
which  fly  up  with  3'ou  in  their  claws !  The  heaven  of  our  days  hangs 
full  of  these  eagles.  Thoj'  love  yon  not,  though  thoy  think  so  ;  because, 
like  the  blcBl  in  Mohamn  ed's  paradi.se,  instead  of  their  lost  arms  of  love, 


130  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

tliey  have  only  wings  of  fancy.     Tliey  are  like  great  streams,  warm  only 
along  the  shore,  and  in  the  middle  cold. 

Now  enthusia.st,  now  libertine  in  love,  he  ran  through  the  alternation 
between  ether  and  slime  more  and  more  rapidly,  till  he  mixed  tliem  both. 
His  blossoms  shot  up  on  the  varnished  flower-staff  of  the  ideal,  which, 
liovvever,  rotted,  colorless,  in  tlie  ground.  Start  with  horror,  but  believe 
it — he  sometimes  plunged  on  purpose  into  sins  and  torments,  in  order, 
down  there,  by  the  pangs  of  remorse  and  humiliation,  to  cut  into  himself 
more  deeply  the  oath  of  reformation. 

That  we  have  not  misrepresented  Richter's  Titan,  as 
being  mainly  a  miscellany  of  thoughts  and  fancies  which  the 
story  only  supplies  excuse  for  introducing,  let  an  intercalated 
"  Cycle"  (chapter),  so-called,  commencing  the  sixth  "  Jubilee" 
(book),  so-called,  bear  witness.  From  this  we  extract  its 
opening  paragraphs,  and  show  them  as  incidental  exemplili- 
cation  of  Jean  Paul's  humor.  Overtly  humorous  passages, 
it  is  very  difficult  to  separate  from  the  text  of  Kichter.  The 
truly  appreciative  reader  learns  at  length  to  make  humor  tlie 
qualifying  master-light  of  nearly  all  his  seeing,  in  the  pages 
of  this  writer.  The  title  stands,  in  usual  form,  "Sixth  Jubi- 
lee;" under  this,  as  one  of  several  sub-titles,  "The  Ten  Per- 
secutions of  the  Reader."  With  these  "ten  persecutions" 
only  (and  with  these  condensed)  here  we  have  need  to  do. 
There  is  tacit  Richterian  allusion  to  the  traditional  "ten  per- 
secutions," long  reckoned  by  ecclesiastical  historians,  of  the 
early  Christian  Church.  Richter  begins,  after  his  own  preg- 
nant allusive  manner,  with  opulent  reduplication  of  alterna- 
tive phrase — appropriate  enough  in  the  present  case,  since  the 
writer's  object  is  to  represent  how  prolific,  beyond  its  power 
to  disburden  itself,  his  mind  is,  in  ideas  of  all  sorts: 

Postulates,  apothegms,  philosophems,  Erasmian  adages,  observations  of 
Rochefoucauld,  La  Bruyere,  Lavater,  do  I  in  one  week  invent  in  countless 
numbers,  more  than  I  can  in  six  months  get  rid  of  by  bringing  them  into 
my  biographical  petits  soupes  as  episode-dishes.  Thus  does  the  lottery- 
mintage  of  my  unprinted  manuscripts  swell  higher  and  higher  every  day^ 
the  more  extracts  and  winnings  I  deal  out  to  my  reader  therefrom  in 
print.  In  tiiis  way  I  creep  out  of  the  world  without  having,  while  in  it, 
said  any  thing.  .   .    . 

But  why  shall  I  not  ...  let  at  least  one  or  two  lymphatic  veins  of  my 


Richter.  131 

water-treasure  leap  up  and  runout?  I  limit  myself  to  ten  persecutions 
of  the  reader,  calling  my  ten  aphorisms  thus,  merely  because  I  imagine 
the  readers  to  be  martyrs  of  their  opinions,  and  myself  the  regent  who 
converts  them  by  force.  The  following  aphorism,  if  one  reckons  the 
foregoing  as  the  first  persecution,  is,  I  hope,  the 

Secoxd,  Notliing . . .  winnows  our  preferences  and  partialilies  better  than 
an  imitation  of  the  same  by  others.  For  a  genius  there  are  no  sharper 
pohshing-raachines  and  grinding-disks  at  hand  tliau  his  apes.  If,  further, 
every  one  of  us  could  see  running  along  beside  him  a  duplicate  of  liimseU", 
a  complete  Archimimus  ["The  title  of  a  man,  among  the  Romans,  who 
walked  behind  the  corpse  and  acted  out  the  looks  and  character  which  the 
deceased  had  when  living. — Pers.,  Sat.  3."  (Richter'a  own  note)]  and  re- 
peater in  complimenting',  taking  off  the  hat,  dancing,  speaking,  scolding, 
bragging,  etc. ;  by  heaven !  such  an  exact  repeating-work  of  our  discords 
would  make  quite  other  people  out  of  me  and  other  people  than  we  are  at 
present.  .  .  . 

Third.     It  is  easier  and  handier  for  men  to  flatter  than  to  praise. 

Fifth.  What  makes  old  age  so  sad  is,  not  that  our  joys,  but  that 
our  hopes,  then  cease. 

Sevexth.  Have  compassion  on  poverty,  but  a  hundred  times  more  on 
impoverishment!  Only  the  former,  not  the  latter,  makes  nations  and  in- 
dividuals belter. 

Eighth.     Love  lessens  woman's  delicacy  and  increases  man's. 

Last  Persecution  of  the  Reader.  Deluded  and  darkened  man  .  .  . 
thinks  there  is  no  further  evil  beyond  that  which  he  has  immediately  to 
overcome;  and  forgets  tliat  after  the  victory  the  new  situation  brings  a 
new  struggle. 

Tims  does  the  reader  vainly  hope  now,  after  having  stood  out  ten  per- 
secutions, to  ride  into  the  haven  of  the  story,  and  there  to  lead  a  peaceable 
life,  free  from  the  troubled  one  of  my  characters ;  but  can  any  spiritual  or 
worldly  arm,  then,  protect  him  against  scattered  similes?  etc.,  etc.  .  .  . 

Richter's  pathos  is  the  pathos  of  reflection  and  of  sentiment, 
rather  than  of  situation  or  of  action.  It  is  liardly  ever  quite 
pure  ;  ahnost  always  there  is  some  intermingling  of  the  hu- 
morous, or,  it  may  well  chance,  even  of  the  grotesque.  The 
following  passage — wherewith  we  take  leave  of  the  TlUni — 
may  be  accepted  as  a  fairly  representative  specimen.  Rich- 
ter— with  sincere  sympathy,  but  with  sympathy  ever  ready  to 
relieve  itself  by  kindly  humor — is  dwelling,  in  connection 
with  his  hero  Albano,  on  the  glorious  heyday  of  youth,  that 
morning-time    of   life    in    which    all    things    seem    possible, 


132  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

to  the  sense  of  untried  omnipotence  within  the  soul.     He 

says  : 

Blissful,  blissful  time !  thou  hast  long  since  gone  by  I  0,  the  years  in 
which  man  reads,  and  makes,  liis  tirst  poems  :ind  systems,  when  the  spirit 
creates  and  blesses  its  first  worlds,  and  when,  full  of  fresh  morning- 
thoughts,  it  sees  the  first  constellations  of  truth  come  up  bringing  an 
eternal  splendor,  and  stand  ever  before  tlie  longing  heart  which  has  en- 
joyed them,  and  to  which  time,  by  and  by,  offers  only  astronomical  news- 
papers and  refraction-tables  on  tlie  morning  stars,  only  antiquated  truths 
and  rejuvenated  lies!  0,  then  was  man,  hke  a  fresh,  thirsty  child,  suckled 
and  reared  with  the  milk  of  wisdom;  at  a  later  period  he  is  only  cured 
with  it,  as  a  withered,  skeptical,  hectic  patients!  But  thou  canst,  indeed, 
never  come  back  again,  glorious  season  o{ first  love  for  the  truth!  .  .  . 

Into  this  golden  age  of  his  [Albano's]  heart  fell  also  his  acquaintance 
with  Rousseau  and  Shakespeare,  of  whom  the  former  exalted  liim  above 
his  century,  and  the  latter  above  this  life. 

Jean  Paul  wrote  a  book  on  education,  under  the  title  of 
Levana.  This  has  been  translated,  and  the  translation  is  now 
published  as  a  volume  in  their  useful  series  of  "  educational 
classics  "  by  D.  C.  Heath  &  Co.  The  gold  of  the  book  is 
not  without  its  alloy.  There  is  plenty  of  whimsey  and 
paradox  in  Richter's  educational  advice. 

Prefixed  to  the  treatise  on  education  in  the  English  volume, 
appropriately  appears  Richter's  "  autobiography."  This  frag- 
ment is  not,  as  a  whole,  a  specially  fine  felicity  of  the  author's 
hand.  Writing  "  lectures,"  as  "  professor,"  on  the  "  history 
of  himself  "  (such  is  his  humorous  form  of  conception  for  his 
autobiography),  he  did  his  work  under  urgency  from  others, 
and  under  protest  of  reluctance  on  his  own  part.  Passages, 
however,  are  exquisitely  beautiful.  The  most  exquisitely 
beautiful  of  all  is  perhaps  the  one  with  which  the  fragment 
closes.  In  it,  Jean  Paul,  drawn  into  fond  reminiscence,  de- 
scribes tenderly  the  season  of  his  own  first  communion.  Their 
first  communion,  among  Lutherans,  as  among  Roman  Cath- 
olics, is  a  great  occasion  for  children.  Jean  Paul's  father 
was  a  minister,  and  the  boy  at  home  was  steeped  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  religion.  Very  touchingly  he  adverts  to  the 
custom  requiring  the  young  candidate  to  make,  the  day  before 


Richter.  133 

his  first  approach  to  the  altar,  the  round  of  kindred  and 
neighbors,  in  suit  of  forgiveness  for  all  faults  committed  in 
the  past.     Richter  : 

How  often  did  I  go  to  the  garret  before  the  Confession  Saturday,  and 
kneel  down  to  repent  and  atone  I  And  how  sweet  it  was  on  the  Con- 
fession day  itself  to  ask  forgiveness  with  stammering  hps  and  overflowing 
heart  for  one's  faults  from  all  the  dear  ones,  parents  and  teachers,  and 
tlius  to  atone  for  them  and  absolve  one's  self  1 

On  this  evening  there  came,  too,  a  mild,  hglit,  clear  heaven  of  peace 
over  my  soul,  an  unutterable,  never-returning  blessedness,  in  feeling  my- 
self quite  clean,  purified,  and  freed  from  sin;  in  having  made  with  God 
and  man  a  joyful,  fer-reaching  peace;  and  still,  from  tiiese  evening  iiours 
of  mild  and  warm  soul-rest,  I  looked  onward  to  the  heavenly  entluisiasin 
and  nipiui'e  at  tlie  altar  next  morning. 

0  blessed  time!  wlien  one  has  stripped  off  the  unclean  past,  and  stands 
pure  and  white,  free  and  fresh,  in  the  present,  and  thus  steps  forth  coiu-- 
ageously  into  the  future.  But  to  whom  but  children  can  tiiis  time 
return  ?  .  .  . 

On  Sunday  morning  the  boys  and  girls,  adorned  for  the  sacrificial  altar, 
met  at  tiie  parsonage  for  the  solemn  entrance  into  the  church  amid  sing- 
ing and  bell- ringing.  All  this,  together  with  tlie  festive  attire  and  the 
nosegays,  and  the  darkened  fragrant  birch-trees,  both  at  home  and  in  tiie 
church,  became  for  the  young  soul  a  powerful  breeze  in  its  outspread 
wings,  which  were  already  raised  and  in  motion.  Even  during  tlie  long 
sermon  the  heart  expanded  with  its  fire,  and  inward  struggles  were 
carried  on  against  all  thoughts  which  were  worldly  or  not  suftieiently 
holy. 

At  length  I  received  the  broad  from  my  father  and  the  cup  from  my 
purely  loved  teacher,  .  .  .  and  my  rapture  rose  to  a  physical  lightning- 
feeling  of  miraculous  union. 

1  thus  left  the  altar  with  a  clear  blue  infinite  heaven  in  my  iieart;  this 
heaven  revealed  itself  to  me  by  an  unlimited,  Stainless,  tender  love  which 
1  now  felt  for  all,  all  mankind.  To  this  day  I  have  preserved  within  my 
heart,  with  loving  and  youthful  freshness,  the  remembrance  of  the  happi- 
ness when  I  looked  on  the  church-members  with  love,  and  took  them  all 
to  my  innermost  heart.  The  maiden  companions  at  the  holy  altar  with 
their  bridal  wreaths  became  not  only  dearer,  but  also  more  holy,  to  me  as 
the  brides  of  Clirist,  and  I  included  them  all  in  such  a  wide,  pure  love 
tiiat  even  my  beloved  Katharina,  as  far  as  I  can  remember,  was  not  other- 
wise loved  than  the  rest. 

The  whole  earth  remained  for  mc  throughout  the  day  an  unlimited 
love-repast,  and  the  whole  tissue  and  web  of  life  apjjoared  to  me  to  be  an 
.iEolian  or  ethereal  harp  jilayod  by  liio  breath  of  love. 


134  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Jean  Paul,  in  a  subsequent  paragraph,  supplies  the  means 
of  making  an  important  discrimination.  The  ardent  feelings 
which  he  has  so  vividly  described  were  by  no  means  the  feel- 
ings of  a  strictly  orthodox  evangelical  Christian.  On  the 
contrary,  they  were  sentiments  which  pagan  great  men  were 
as  capable  of  stirring  in  his  soul  as  was  Jesus  of  Nazareth, 
Richter  says  : 

This  spring  festivity  of  the  lieart  returned  later  in  the  years  of  youth, 
but  only  as  a  quiet,  serene  Sabbath — when  for  the  tirst  time  the  great  old 
stoical  spirits  of  Plutarch,  Epictetus,  and  Antoninus  arose  and  appeared 
before  me,  and  freed  me  from  all  the  pains  of  this  earth,  and  all  anger; 
but  from  tliis  one  Sabbath  I  hope  I  have  gathered  together  a  whole  year 
of  Sabbaths,  or  am  able  to  make  up  that  which  may  still  be  wanting. 

The  most  intensely  loved  of  German  authors,  to  his  own 
countrymen,  is  Richter.  The  most  intensely  loved,  we  say  ; 
for  Schiller  is  the  one  loved  most  widely.  The  reason,  in 
Richter's  case  a,t  least,  is  clear  ;  for  he  himself  loved  much. 
He  was  like  gentle  Saint  Francis  of  Assisi,  in  loving,  not  his 
fellow-men  only,  but  his  fellow-creatures  all,  of  earth,  of  air, 
of  sea.     Coleridge's  lines,  if  to  any,  would  apply  to  Richter, 

He  prayeth  well  who  loveth  well 
Both  man  aud  bird  and  beast. 

The  great  manly  heart  in  him  was  as  soft  as  a  woman's — and 
as  sweet  and  as  chaste  as  a  virgin's. 

It  was  a  long,  long  struggle  for  poor  Jean  Paul,  before 
he  "  won  his  way  upward  and  prevailed  "  as  author.  After 
a  painfully  impoverisbed  experience  at  the  university,  he 
lived  with  his  mother — become  a  Avidow  now — and  shared  her 
abject  poverty.  In  that  one  room  which  was  her  abode — 
seated  there  amid  the  din  of  unavoidable  household  occupa- 
tion surrounding  him — the  pertinacious  youth  wrote  painful 
reams  of  manuscript  that  had  no  market  value.  But  he  felt 
called  to  authorship,  and  he  would  starve  at  that  rather  than 
thrive  at  other  work.  Finally  he  wrote  The  Invisible  Lodge. 
Probably  he  never  experienced  a  purer  joy  than  when  he 
poured  into  his  mother's  lap  the  golden  ducats  paid  him,  in 


Michter.  135 

first  installment,  by  the  publisher  of  that  production.  The 
struggle  was  mainly  over,  and  now  the  triumph  began. 
With  Hesperus  published,  Jean  Paul  became  a  rage.  Never, 
perhaps,  in  the  annals  of  letters  was  there  a  personal  victory 
greater.  For  the  man,  too,  Avas  suddenly  as  popular  as  the 
author.  He  walked  through  the  fatherland  as  in  a  royal 
})rogTess,  as  in  an  endless  Roman  triumph.  The  houses  of 
nobles,  the  palaces  of  kings,  were  thrown  open  to  him. 
Women,  women  of  rank  and  of  fame,  went  wild  over  Jean 
Paul.  Every  thing  feminine  in  Germany  seemed  to  cast  it- 
self in  offer  and  in  worship  at  the  conqueror's  feet.  One 
brilliant  woman  seriously,  and  even  urgently,  proposed,  by 
means  of  a  divorce,  to  get  herself  free  of  her  husband,  that 
she  might  marry  the  author  of  Hesperus.  Her  importunity 
proved  vain,  A  later  case  is  that  of  a  pure  and  noble 
young  girl  who,  never  having  seen  Richter,  loved  him  so 
from  his  books  that  she  pined  in  a  vain  desire  towai'd  him, 
which  finally  turned  back  on  her  own  poor  heart  and 
drove  her  to  suicide.  Richter  was  then  already  a  married 
man  of  fifty.  He  had  answered  the  child's  letters  to  hira 
with  a  mild,  sweet  wisdom  of  fatherly  counsel,  which  sets 
his  character  in  the  fairest  and  most  engaging  liglit.  It  was 
truly  astonisliing  how  this  masculine  intellectual  Aphrodite, 
this  resistless  Apollo,  seemed  unconsciously  to  "conquer  all 
with  love."  The  most  singular  thing  about  it,  however — and 
the  one  thing  admirable — was  that  Jean  Paul,  according  to 
the  universal  testimony,  remained  throughout  as  impeccably 
chaste  in  conduct  as  an  angel  of  light.  Such  a  man  was, 
evidently,  no  natural  fellow-citizen  of  Goethe.  After  Goe- 
the, during  his  own  life-time,  had  published  his  autobiogra- 
phy, entitling  it.  Poetry  and  Truth  out  of  My  Life  (so  to 
release  himself  from  the  obligation  of  faithful  adherence  to 
fact),  Richter,  with  perhaps  a  needless  slant  at  this  book, 
styled  his  own  account  of  himself,  Truth  out  of  My  Life ; 
wheieupon  (ioethe,  with  what  was  meant  to  be  the  extreme 
of  severity,  remarked,  "  Jean  Paul  has  written  Truth  out  of 
My  Life — as  if  truth  from  the  life  of  such  a  man  could  be 


136  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

any  other  than  that  the  anthor  was  a  Pliilistine."  ("  Philis- 
tine" was  a  term  of  opprobrium  implying  "  vulgar,  sordid 
fellow.")  It  was  a  disguised  confession  from  Goethe  of  the 
liostility  which  he  could  not  but  feel  toward  a  man  so  ])ro- 
foundly  different  in  character  and  in  life  from  himself. 

This  relation  of  instinctive  mutual  repulsion  between 
Goethe  and  Richter  did  not  at  once  establish  itself.  It  was 
but  the  final  inevitable  result  jointly  of  deep  intellectual 
and  of  deep  moral  antipathy.  Herder  and  Richter  were  two 
by  themselves  ;  another  two,  also  by  themselves,  were  Goe- 
the and  Schiller.  These  two  pairs  of  men  were  two  fun- 
damentally, though  not  ojjenly,  hostile  alliances,  offensive 
and  defensive. 

Richter  himself  may  now  tell  us  how  it  seemed  to  liim  to  be 
at  length,  by  way  of  change,  successful,  famous,  and  happy.  He 
writes  to  his  life-long,  dearest  of  friends,  Otto.  He  dates 
from  that  Weimar  which  AYieland  had  caused  to  be  called  the 
"  Athens  of  Germany,"  and  which  now  Goethe,  as  resident, 
made  yet  more  widely  illustrious.  The  natural  o])enness  of 
Richter's  heart  is  set  boundlessly  wide  and  free,  both  by  his 
new  sensations  of  joy  and  by  his  sense  of  perfect  confidence 
in  his  friend: 

God  saw  yesterday  upon  his  earth  a  happy  mortal,  and  tliat  was  I.  Ah, 
I  was  so  happy  that  I  tlioiiglit  of  Nemesis,  and  Herder  consoled  me  with 
the  DeuH  Averruncus.  [Nemesis  was  the  goddess  of  revenge,  anciently 
supposed  to  follow  great  good  fortune  witli  a  visitation  of  evil.  The  Deus 
Averruncus  was  a  divinity  supposed  able,  on  the  contrarj-,  to  avert  im- 
pending calamity.]  I  cannot  put  off  writing  till  I  can  send  a  letter.  I 
must  s;\y  something. 

Knebel,  chamberlain  to  the  Duchess  of  Weimar,  showed 
Richter  polite  attentions.  The  two  men  were  walking  to- 
gether when  (Richter's  letter  now  again) : 

Knebel  said,  "  How  gloriously  it  all  happens ;  liere  comes  Herder,  his 
wife,  and  the  two  children."  We  went  to  meet  him,  and  under  the  free 
heaven  I  threw  myself  into  his  arms.  I  could  scarcely  speak  for  joy,  and 
he  could  not  embrace  me  enough.  As  I  looked  around  Knebel's  eyes 
were  almost  moist.  With  Herder  I  am  now  as  familiar  as  with  you. .  .  . 
I  wish  it  were  possible  to  tell  you  all  without  blushing.     He  pra'ses  all 


Michter.  137 

my  works,  even  the  Greenland  Lawsuitx.    .    .    .    He  sa3\«,  "  Whenever  lie 
reads  the  Hesperus  he  is  for  two  chiys  nnfit  for  bnsiness."  .  .  . 

In  the  evenhig  we  supped  with  the  Kalb.  [It  was  Madame  von  Kallj 
Avho  afterward  wished  to  be  divorced  that  she  might  marry  FRchter.]  .  .  . 
I  made  as  many  satires  as  at  Hof  [liis  mother's  lioine,  and  Otto's] — in  siiort. 
I  was  as  unrestrained  and  as  hveij'  as  I  am  with  yon.  By  heaven!  I 
have  become  courageous,  and  could  trust  myself  to  talk  with  twenty  gen- 
tlemen, and  yet  more,  with  the  burgomaster  and  all  his  kindred. 

How  mueli  is  here  pathetico-humorously  implied  of  Jean 
Paul's  former  humble  estate  !  But  there  was  a  disturliini;- 
disillusion.  Weimar  had  pieviously  won  in  Richter's  eyes 
"  a  glory  from  its  being  far."     Pie  says: 

I  have  not  told  j'ou  one  third  part ;  but  tlie  bitterest  drop,  Otto,  swims 
in  my  Heidelberg  cup  of  joy.  What  .lean  Paul  wins,  humanity  loses  in 
liis  eyes.     Ah!  my  ideal  of  great  men! 

The  expression  "  Heidelberg  cup  of  joy"  alludes  to  the 
celebrated  tun  for  wine,  in  its  day  the  largest  ever  built,  still 
to  be  seen  in  Heidelberg  Castle. 

Five  days  later,  June  17,  1796,  Richter  writes  ag.iin: 

I  have  lived  twenty-  years  in  Weimar  in  a  few  days.  ...  I  am  happy, 
Otto,  wholl}^  happ3%  not  merely  bej'ond  all  expectation,  but  beyond  all 
description,  and  I  lack  nothing  in  the  whole  world  but  you,  oulv  you ! 

What  now  follows  will  show  the  peculiar  awe,  to  which  not 
even  the  free  spirit  of  Richter  could  at  first  rise  superior, 
inspired  by  the  presence  and  influence  of  Goethe: 

On  the  second  day  I  threw  away  my  foolish  prejudices  in  favor  of 
great  authors.  They  are  like  other  people.  Here,  every  one  knows  that 
thej''  are  like  the  earth,  which  looks  from  a  distance,  from  heaven,  like  a 
shining  moon,  but  when  the  foot  is  upon  it  it  is  found  to  be  made  of 
houe  de  Paris  [Paris  mud].  An  opinion  concerning  Herder,  Wieland,  or 
Goethe  is  as  much  contested  as  any  other.  Who  would  believe  that  the 
three  watch-towers  of  our  literatiu'e  avoid  and  dislike  each  other?  I  will 
never  again  bend  myself  an.xiously  before  any  great  man,  onl}'  before  the 
virtuous.  Under  this  impression,  I  went  timidly  to  meet  Ooethe.  Every 
one  had  described  him  as  cold  to  everj'  thing  upon  the  earth.  Madame 
von  Kalb  said,  lie  no  longer  admires  any  tiling,  not  even  himself.  Every 
word  is  ice  1  Curiosities  merely  warm  the;  fibres  of  his  iieart.  Therefore 
I  asked  Knebel  to  petrify  or  encrust  mo  by  some  mineral  spring,  that  I 


138  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

iiiijihl  present  m3'selC  to  Iiiiii  like  a  statue  or  a  fossil.  Madame  von  Kalb 
advised  nie  above  all  tilings  to  be  cold  and  self-possessed,  and  I  went 
witliont  warmth,  merely  from  curiosity.  His  house,  palace  rather,  pleased 
me;  it  is  tlieonlyonein  Weimar  in  the  Italian  style — with  such  steps!  A 
Pantheon  full  of  pictures  and  statues.  Fresh  anxiety  oppressed  my 
breast!  At  last  the  god  entered,  cold,  one-syllabled,  without  accent. 
"The  French  are  drawing  toward  Paris,"  said  Knebel.  "Hm!"  said  the 
god.  His  face  is  massive  and  animated,  his  eye  a  ball  of  light.  ■  But,  at  last, 
the  conversation  led  from  the  campaign  to  art,  publications,  etc.,  and  Goethe 
was  Inrasslf.  His  conversation  is  not  so  rich  and  flowing  as  Herder's, 
but  sharp-toned,  penetrating,  and  calm.  At  last  he  read,  that  is,  played 
for  us,  an  unpublished  poem,  in  which  his  heart  impelled  the  flame  through 
the  outer  crust  of  ice,  so  that  he  pressed  the  hand  of  the  enthusiastic 
Jean  Paul.  (It  was  my  face,  not  my  voice,  for  I  said  not  a  word.)  He 
did  it  again  when  we  took  leave,  and  pressed  me  to  call  again  By 
heaven!  we  will  love  each  otlier!  He  considers  his  poetic  course  as 
closed.  His  reading  is  like  deep-toned  thunder,  blended  with  soft,  whis- 
pering rain-drops.     There  is  nothing  like  it. 

The  same  letter,  that  of  June  17,  tells  of  an  interviewwitli 
Schiller.  The  adjective  used  by  Riehter  to  characterize  this 
great  and  popular  poet,  will  probably  surprise  most  readers. 
Richter's  language  implies  that  Schiller's  personal  presence 
was  generally  felt  on  first  approach  to  be  repellent: 

I  went  yesterday  to  see  the  stony  Schiller,  from  whom,  as  from  a 
precipice,  all  strangers  spring  back.  His  form  is  worn,  severely  power- 
ful, but  angular.  He  is  full  of  sharp,  cutting  power,  but  without  love. 
His  conversation  is  nearly  as  excellent  as  his  writings.  As  I  brought  a 
letter  from  Goethe  he  was  unusually  pleasant;  he  would  make  me  a  fel- 
low-contributor to  the  Horen  a  [periodical],  and  would  give  me  a  natural- 
ization act  in  Jena. 

For  a  moment,  then,  Jean  Paul  was  with  the  circle  of 
Goethe  and  Schiller;  but  he  was  never,  for  a  moment,  of  that 
circle.  It  was  soon  after  his  return  to  Hof  that  he  wrote 
to  Knebel  those  words  which  cnt  so  to  the  quick  through  the 
usually  impenetrable  mail  of  Goethe:  "In  such  stormy  times 
we  need  a  Tyrteeus  rather  than  a  Propertius."  Their  differ- 
ence in  patriotic  feeling  worked  as  strongly  as  did  their 
difference  in  intellectual  and  moral  sentiment,  among  the 
things  that  held  Riehter  and  Goethe  asunder,  Riehter  was 
a  patriot  and  Goethe  was  a  lover  of  culture. 


*    Richter.  139 

Richter,  still  unmarried,  though  thirty-five  years  old,  was 
ill  due  course  attracted  to  Berlin.  Here  he  was  received  with 
measureless  welcome.  The  queen  was  his  friend.  The 
whole  court,  therefore,  was  of  course  at  his  service.  "  So  much 
hair  has  been  begged  of  me,"  he  writes,  "  that  if  I  were  to 
make  it  a  traffic  I  could  live  as  well  from  tlie  outside  of  my 
cranium  as  from  w^hat  is  inside  it."  At  Berlin  he  met  his 
fate,  a  welcome  one  and  a  fortunate,  in  becoming  acquainted 
with  the  lovely  and  accomplished  woman  who  was  to  be  his 
wife.  The  union  was,  on  both  sides,  very  happy.  Whoever 
wishes  to  read  a  fairly  full  sketch  of  the  life  of  this  most  indi- 
vidual and  most  interesting  man,  should  endeavor  to  find  a 
biography  written  or  compiled  from  various  sources  by  Mrs.  E. 
Buekminster  Lee.  Mrs.  Lee  writes  in  a  spirit  of  contagious 
sympathy  with  her  subject,  delightful  to  the  reader. 

Jean  Paul  was  a  son  of  Anak  in  strength  of  health.  But 
there  came  an  end  of  this — to  him,  as  there  comes  to  all.  He 
had  loved  to  study  and  work  out  of  doors.  When  the  time 
arrived — and  it  arrived  early  for  so  stalwart  a  man — that  he 
had  to  shut  himself  up  and  guard  himself  against  the  weather, 
the  change  was  a  marked  one,  and  it  boded  the  end  as  nigh. 
The  loss  of  a  son,  cut  oft  in  young  manhood,  broke  the  father's 
heart.  He  still  worked,  but  the  spring  of  hope  and  joy  in 
work  had  failed.  When  he  wrote,  he  wrote  with  his  eyes 
streaming  tears  over  the  memory  of  his  son.  From  this 
cause,  or  from  some  cause,  his  sight  was  impaired.  Gradu- 
ally he  became  quite  blind.  Amid  affectionate  ministrations 
from  wife  and  kindred  and  friends,  he  passed  thus  a  linger- 
ing night  of  darkness,  helpless,  but  pathetically  gentle  and 
lovely  ill  his  helplessness,  till  he  died.  They  buried  him 
by  torchlight,  the  manuscript  of  his  la^t  work,  still  unfinished — 
a  tractate  on  the  immortality  of  the  soul — borne,  a  symbol,  on 
his  coffin.  But  the  tears  of  a  nation  that  loved  the  man  as 
well  as  the  author  made  an  amber  to  embalm  him  for  immor- 
tality. There  had  ceased  a  German  such  as  never  was  before, 
such  as  never  would  be  after.     It  was  .Jean  Paul  the  Only! 


140  Classic  German  CoursPin  Enylish. 


VIII. 

INTERLUDE    OF    POETS. 

RiCHTER,  with  whom  we  have  just  done  dealing,  is  cus- 
tomarily, by  his  countrymen,  reckoned  a  "poet"— this,  al- 
though the  form  of  his  production  was  prose,  not  verse. 
But  Richter's  writing,  even  if  you  consider  it  poetry,  is  not 
easy  reading ;  and  the  same  is  true  of  Herder's — ''  poem," 
though,  with  Kichter,  you  consider  that  great  author  to  be. 

In  the  last  two  chapters,  accordingly,  our  readers  may 
have  found  their  task  a  trifle  serious.  A  change,  peihaps, 
will  be  grateful — a  change,  if  not  exactly  "  from  grave  to 
gay,'"  at  least  from  grave  to  less  grave.  Let  us  interrupt 
the  regular  succession  of  name  to  mime,  in  our  list  of  the 
greater  classic  German  authors,  and,  "so  to  interpose  a  little 
ease,"  listen  now,  for  a  while,  to  the  mingling  voices  of  some 
German  writers  whom  we  uiay  set  down  as  poets,  without  put- 
ting the  word  within  marks  of  quotation.  What  we  hear 
will  be,  "  not  from  the  grand  old  masters,  not  from  the  bards 
sublime,"  but  from  a  select  few  of  those  lesser  brethren  of  the 
tuneful  choir — and  of  such  in  German  literature  there  are 
many — who  have  sung,  it  may  be,  barely  a  single  song  or  two 
that  has  caught  and  held  the  ear  of  the  generations.  We 
shall  thus  find  opportunity  to  catch  a  few  sweet  tones,  at 
least,  descending  from  the  Christian  hymnody  of  the  Ger- 
mans— a  rich  and  varied  music,  when  heard  in  full  choir, 
constituting  one  of  the  best  glories  of  the  German  Par- 
nassus. 

We  begin  with  Hans  Sachs  0  494-1 5  76L  Hans  Sachs  was 
a  shoemaker,  but  he  disregarded  the  proverb  and  went  be- 
yond his  last.  He  became  what  is  called  a  master-singer 
{meistershiger).  By  this  is  meant  that  he  attached  himself 
to  a  regularly  organized  society,  or  guild,  of  men  who  made 
it  a  business  to  manufacture  verses.  Such  manufacture,  in 
those  old  days,  went  on   at  a  redoubtable  rate  among  (Ter- 


Interlnde  of  Poets.  141 


mans.  The  product  was  good  or  bad,  of-course,  much  ac- 
cording to  the  original  gift,  or  hick  of  gift,  that  belonged  to 
the  particular  singer,  Hans  Sachs  was  a  natural  poet,  and 
he  made  a  successful  craftsman  in  verse  accordingly.  lie 
was  voluminous  in  production,  having,  to  full  measure,  that 
seldom-wanting  attribute  of  true  genius,  fecundity.  His 
quantity,  indeed,  was  so  great  that  his  quality  could  hardly 
fail  to  be  comparatively  less.  When  lie  had  written  poetry 
fifty-two  years,  he  had  turned  out  more  than  six  thousand 
two  hundred  separate  pieces,  classified  as  follows:  master- 
songs,  four  thousand  and  upward;  two  hundred  and  eight 
comedies  and  tragedies;  near  two  thousand  "  merry  tales," 
dialogues,  proverbs,  fables,  together  with  seventy-three  songs, 
devotional  and  other.  All  this  in  verse;  and  he  had  written 
prose  besides. 

Hans  Sachs  was  a  Protestant,  with  Luther.  He  praised 
the  great  reformer  in  an  allegorical  tale,  which  he  entitled 
The  Nightingale  ofWittenberg.  The  nightingale,  of  course, 
is  Luther,  who  lures  the  listening  sheep,  fallen  among  raven- 
ing beasts  of  prey,  to  a  lovely  flowery  meadow  where  grass 
is  green  and  waters  are  still.  The  pcrpe  appears  in  the  poem, 
under  the  figure  of  a  devouring  lion. 

Hans  Sachs's  "  merry  tales  "  are  his  best  and  most  charac- 
teristic productions.  These  have  a  quality  of  homely  humor 
which  is  very  flavorous.  Hans  Sachs  deals  with  things  sa- 
cred in  a  spirit  of  freedom  which,  to  the  modern  sense,  might 
well  seem  little  short  of  sheer  irreverence.  Take  the  follow- 
ing for  a  sufficient  example.  It  is  the  story  of  Saint  Peter 
and  the  Goat.  Saint  Peter  has  hinted  to  the  Almighty  that 
things  go  rather  awry  down  in  the  world,  and  offered,  with 
the  divine  permission,  to  set  them  to  rights.  At  that  very 
moment  there  presents  herself  a  peasant  girl,  complaining 
that  she  has  her  hands  more  than  full  with  a  hard  day's  work 
to  do,  and  in  the  bargain  a  troublesome  goat  to  mind.  The 
Lord  at  once  turns  over  this  affair  to  Peter,  and  Peter  experi- 
mentally undertakes  the  care  of  the  goat — with  result  de- 
scribed as  follows  in  Hans  Sachs's  verse,  translated  by  Gost- 


142  Classic  German  Course  in  EuijUsh. 

wick  and  Harrison — we  trust  to  Professor  Hosmer's  cita- 
tion: 

The  young  goat  had  a  plaj^ful  mind, 

And  never  Hked  to  be  confined; 

The  apostle,  at  a  kilhng  pace, 

Followed  the  goat  in  desperate  chase ; 

Over  the  hills  and  among  the  briars 

Tiie  goat  runs  on  and  never  tires, 

While  Peter,  behind,  on  the  grassy  plain, 

Runs  on,  panting  and  sighing  in  vain. 

All  day,  beneath  the  scorching  sun, 

The  good  apostle  had  to  run, 

Till  evening  came;  the  goat  was  caugM, 

And  safely  to  the  Master  brought. 

Then,  with  a  smile,  to  Peter  said 

The  Lord:  "Well,  friend,  how  have  you  sped? 

If  such  a  task  your  powers  has  tried. 

How  could  you  keep  tiie  world  so  wide  ?  " 

Then  Peter,  with  his  toil  distressed, 

His  folly  with  a  sigh  confessed. 

"No,  Master,  'tis  for  me  no  play 

To  rule  one  goat  for  one  short  day ; 

It  must  be  infinitely  worse 

To  regulate  the  universe." 

It  would  hardly  seem  possible  that,  from  the  same  genius 
which  produced  the  foregoing,  there  could  proceed  so  per- 
fectly decorous,  and  withal  so  genuinely  simple  and  hearty, 
a  devotional  inspiration  as  the  following,  presented  in  tlie 
way  of  Hans  Sachs's  farewell  to  our  readers.  We  give  four 
only  out  of  the  nine  stanzas  contained  in  the  hymn: 

Why  art  tiiou  thus  cast  down,  my  heart? 
Why  troubled,  why  dost  mourn  apart, 
O'er  naught  but  eartlily  wealth  ? 
Trust  in  thy  God,  be  not  afraid. 
He  is  tiiy  Friend  who  all  things  made. 

Dost  think  thy  prayers  he  doth  not  heed? 
He  knows  full  well  what  thou  dost  need. 
And  heaven  and  earth  are  his; 
My  father  and  ray  God,  who  still 
Is  with  my  soul  in  every  ill. 


Interlude  of  Poets,  143 


Since  thou  my  God  and  Father  art, 
I  know  th}'  faithful,  loving  heart 
Will  ne'er  forget  thy  child. 
See,  I  am  poor,  I  am  but  dust, 
On  earth  is  none  whom  I  can  trust, 

The  rich  man  in  his  wealth  confides, 
But  in  my  God  my  trust  abides ; 
Laugh  as  ye  will,  I  hold 
This  one  thing  fast  that  he  hath  taught: 
Who  trusts  in  God  shall  want  for  nauglit. 


1  The  foremost  hymn-writer  in  the  German  language  is,  by- 
common  consent,  Paul  Gerhardt  (1G06 — 1676).  A  large  part 
of  his  life  was  passed  amid  the  storm  and  distress  of  the 
Thirty  Years'  War.  He  was  a  man  of  steady  adherence  to 
priiicii^le,  and  in  his  case  the  hymns  of  the  poet  may,  with 
more  confidence  than  generally  is  wise  in  such  assumptions, 
be  taken  to  reflect  the  character  of  the  Christian.  Gerhardt's 
hymns  are  often  almost  more  religious  poems,  than  hymns. 
Lyrical  they  are  indeed,  but  they  run  on  to  length  beyond 
what,  according  to  our  own  ordinary  standards,  is  proper  for 
pieces  that  are  to  be  sung  continuously  through.  For  ex- 
ample, the  full  text  of  the  original  piece  of  Gerhardt  from 
which,  translated  by  Wesley,  a  section  is  cut  out  to  make 
the  familiar  hymn,  beginning,  "  Give  to  the  winds  thy  fears," 
extends  to  the  measure  of  sixty-four  lines.  The  stanzas  in 
one  of  Gerhardt's  hymns  will  generally  all  of  them  be  good; 
but  often  it  seems  as  if  there  were  too  many  of  them.  One 
stanza  goes  on  echoing  another,  without  a})parent  progress 
of  thought.  Such,  in  fact,  tends  to  be  the  ])revailing  char- 
acter of  German  hymns  in  general.  They  possess  the  merit 
of  unity,  but,  with  that,  the  demerit  of  unity  too  much  in- 
sisted on,  in  rounds  of  rej^etition.  We  confine  ourselves  to 
a  single  hymn  of  Gerhardt's,  ninety-six  lines  long.  The 
hymn  is  throughout  so  very  good,  that  in  this  instance  the 
length  is  hardly  excessive.  We  retrench,  however,  one  half 
' — with  sincere  regret.     Our  translator,  for  all  these  German 


144  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

hymns,  is  Miss  Catherine  Winkworth,  who  has  two  vohimes 
of  transhition  from  German  psalmody.  This  English  lady 
translates  consummately  well: 

If  God  be  on  my  side, 

Tlieii  let  wlio  will  oppose, 
For  oft  ere  now  to  him  I  cried, 

And  he  hutli  quelled  my  foes. 
If  Jesus  be  my  Friend, 

If  God  doth  love  me  well. 
What  matters  all  my  foes  intend, 

Tliougli  strong  they  be  and  fell? 

His  Spirit  in  me  dwells, 

Oer  all  my  mind  he  reigns  ; 
All  care  and  sadness  lie  dispels, 

And  sootlics  away  all  jjains. 
He  prospers  day  hy  day 

His  work  within  my  heart, 
Till  I  have  strength  and  faith  to  say, 

Thou  God  my  Father  artl 

He  whispers  in  tny  breast 

Sweet  words  of  holy  cheer, 
How  he  wiio  seeks  in  God  his  rest 

Shall  ever  find  him  near; 
How  God  hath  built  above 

A  city  fair  and  new, 
Where  eye  and  heart  shall  see  and  prove 

What  faith  has  co\nited  true. 

The  world  maj'  fail  and  flee, 

Thou  standesl  fast  forever; 
Xot  fire,  or  sword,  or  plague,  from  thee 

My  trusting  soul  shall  sever. 
No  liunger,  and  no  thirst, 

No  poverty  or  pain, 
Let  mighty  princes  "do  their  worst. 

Shall  fright  me  back  again. 

No  joys  that  angels  know, 

No  throne  or  wide-spread  fame, 
No  love  or  loss,  no  fear  or  woe. 

No  grief  of  heart  or  shame — 


Interlude  of  Poets.  145 


Man  cannot  aught  conceive, 

Of  pleasure  or  of  harm,  "" 

That  e'er  could  tempt  my  soul  to  leave 
Her  refuge  in  thine  arm. 

My  heart  for  gladness  springs, 

It  cannot  more  be  sad, 
For  very  joy  it  laughs  and  sings, 

Sees  nauglit  but  sunshine  glad. 
The  sun  that  glads  mine  eyes 

Is  Christ  the  Lord  I  love, 
I  sing  for  joy  of  that  which  lies 

Stored  up  for  us  above. 

We  next  present  a  hymn  bearing  date  1031,  one  wliicb  goes 
by  the  name  of  "  Gustavns  Adolphus's  Battle-song ;  " 

Fear  not,  0  little  flock,  the  foe 
Wlio  madly  seeks  your  overthrow; 

Dread  not  his  rage  and  power; 
What  though  your  courage  sometimes  faints  ? 
His  seeming  triumph  o'er  God's  saints 

Lasts  but  a  little  hour. 

Be  of  good  cheer;  your  cause  belongs 
To  him  who  can  avenge  your  wrongs  ; 

Leave  it  to  him  our  Lord. 
Though  hidden  yet  from  all  our  eyes, 
He  sees  the  Gideon  who  shall  rise 

To  save  us,  and  his  word. 

As  true  as  God's  own  word  is  true, 
Not  earth  nor  hell  with  all  their  crew 

Against  us  shall  prevail; 
A  jest  and  byword  are  they  grown  ; 
God  is  with  us,  we  are  his  own, 

Our  victory  cannot  fail. 

Amen,  Lord  Jcpus,  grant  our  prayer ! 
Greiit  Captain,  now  thine  arm  make  bare; 

Fight  for  us  once  again! 
So  shall  the  saints  and  martyrs  raise 
A  mighty  clionis  to  thy  prnisc, 

World  without  cud.     Amen. 

Gustavns  Adolplms  often   sang  tliis  liymn  with  bis  nrmy. 
He  sang  it  for  tiie  last  time  before  that  battle  of  Ijutzen  in 
7 


146  Classic  German  Course  in  l^iigllsh. 

which  he  fell.  It  is  proper  to  say  that  there  is  a  Swedish 
form  of  this  hymn,  which  the  Swedish  monarch  himself  is 
said  to  have  inspired  to  his  chaplain.  Which  is  prior  in  time, 
the  German  or  the  Swedish  form  of  the  hymn,  seems  un- 
certain. 

It  is  pleasing  to  know  that,  in  1653,  a  royal  lady,  the 
Electress  of  Brandenburg,  had  the  heart  and  the  brain  to 
contribute  to  the  cheer  of  her  time  by  such  a  lyric  as  the 
following;  we  omit  four  stanzas: 

Jesus  mj'-  Redeemer  lives, 

Christ  my  trust  is  dead  no  more; 
In  the  strength  this  knowledge  gives 

Shall  not  all  my  fears  be  o'er ; 
Calm,  though  death's  long  night  be  fraught 
Still  with  many  an  anxious  thought  ? 


I  shall  see  him  witli  these  eyes, 
Him  whom  I  shall  surely  know; 

Not  another  shall  I  rise, 

With  liis  love  this  heart  shall  glow ; 

Only  there  shall  disappear 

Weakness  in  and  rouad  me  here. 


Body,  be  thou  of  good  cheer, 
In  thy  Saviour's  care  rejoice; 

Give  not  place  to  gloom  and  fear ; 
Dead,  thou  yet  shalt  know  his  voice, 

When  the  final  trump  is  heard. 

And  the  deaf,  cold  grave  is  stirred, 

Laugh  to  scorn  then  death  and  hell, 
Laugh  to  scorn  the  gloomy  grave  ; 

Caught  into  the  air  to  dwell 

With  the  Lord  who  comes  to  save, 

We  siiall  trample  on  our  foes, 

Mortal  weakness,  fear,  and  woes. 


'\p       A  sacred  singer  of  a  somewhat  different  type,  was  Johann 
Scheffler  (1624-1677),  best  known  as  Angelus.     Angelus  be- 


Interlude  of  Poets.  147 


if-:-' 


came  in  the  end  a  Roman  Catholic;  but  in  such  a  hymn  as 
the  t'oUowing,  which  is  liis,  we  Christians,  all  of  us,  Protestant 
and  Catholic  alike,  may  joyfully  join.  We  take  the  first  five 
stanzas  only,  composing  just  one  half  of  the  hymn.  It 
comes  near  being  a  case  in  which  the  half  is  more  than  the 

"whole : 

Nothing  fair  on  earth  I  see 

But  I  straightway  think  on  thee; 
Thou  art  fairest  in  my  eyes, 
Source  in  whom  all  beauty  liesl 

"When  I  see  the  reddening  dawn, 
And  the  golden  sun  of  morn, 
Quickly  turns  this  heart  of  mine 
To  thy  glorious  form  divine. 

Oft  I  think  upon  thy  light 
When  the  gray  morn  breaks  the  night; 
Think  what  glories  lie  in  thee, 
Light  of  all  eternity  I 

When  I  see  the  moon  arise 
'Mid  heaven's  thousand  golden  eyes, 
Then  I  think,  more  glorious  far 
Is  the  Maker  of  yon  star. 

Or  I  think  in  spring's  sweet  hours. 
When  the  fields  are  gay  with  flowers, 
As  their  varied  hues  I  see, 
Wliat  must  their  Creator  be! 

Of  the  same  school  in  hymnody  with  Roman  Catholic 
Angelus,  is  Protestant  Giixliaxiit.  Tersteegen  (IGOV-lVGO),  a 
layman,  and  a  business  man.  The  following  hymn,  bearing 
date  1731,  well  expresses  Tersteegen's  sweet  spirit  and  his 
favorite  filial  aspiration ;  we  leave  out  four  stanzas  : 

Dear  soul,  couldst  thou  become  a  child, 

While  yet  on  earth,  meek,  undefiled, 

Then  God  himself  were  ever  near. 

And  paradise  around  thee  here. 

A  child  cares  naught  for  gold  or  treasure, 
Nor  fame  nor  glory  yield  him  pleasure; 
111  perfect  truth,  he  asketh  not 
If  rich  or  poor  shall  bo  his  lot. 


148  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Little  lie  recks  of  dignity, 
Nor  prince  nor  monarch  feareth  he  ; 
Strange  that  a  child  so  weak  and  small 
Is  of  I  the  boldest  of  us  all  1 

He  hath  not  skill  to  utter  lies, 
His  very  soul  is  in  his  eyes; 
Single  his  aim  in  all,  and  true. 
And  apt  to  praise  what  otliers  do. 

No  questions  dark  his  spirits  vex, 
No  faithless  doubts  his  soul  perplex , 
Simply  from  day  to  day  he  lives, 
Content  with  what  the  i^resent  gives. 


For  strange  concerns  he  careth  naught; 
What  others  do,  although  were  wrought 
Before  his  eyes  the  worst  oftense, 
Stains  not  his  tranquil  innocence. 

Spirit  of  childhood  i  loved  of  God, 
By  Jesus'  Spirit  now  bestowed; 
How  often  have  I  longed  for  thee; 
Oj  Jesus,  form  thyself  in  me  I 

And  help  me  to  become  a  child 
While  yet  on  earth,  meek,  undefiled, 
That  I  may  find  God  always  near, 
And  Paradise  around  me  here. 

Tersteegen  is  reckoned  the  best  Germau  hymn-Avriter  of 
the  pietistic  school  to  which  he  belongs, 
,-  We  show  one  hyran  of  Gellert's,  a  name  which  our  readers 
-^  will  remember  from  mention  in  previous  pages  as  that  of  a 
man  possessing  considerable  importance  in^  German  literary 
history.  Gellert  (Christian  Fiirchtegolt,  1715-1769)  had  the 
gift,  not  common  among  his  countrymen,  of  brevity.  The 
following  rather  dry,  didactic,  and  formal,  but  sound  and  sen- 
sible, piece  is  a  fair  specimen  of  Gellert's  religious  hymns : 

Who  keepeth  not  God's  word,  yet  saith, 

"I  know  the  Lord  is  wrong," 
In  him  is  not  that  blessed  faitli 

Through  which  the  truth  is  strong; 


Interlude  of  Poets.  149 


But  lie  who  liears  and  keeps  the  word, 
Is  uol  of  this  world,  but  of  God. 

The  faith  his  word  hath  caused  to  shine 

Will  kindle  love  in  thee; 
More  wouldst  thou  know  of  things  divine? 

Deeper  thy  love  must  he; 
True  faith  not  only  gives  thee  hght, 
But  strength  to  love  and  do  tlie  right. 

Jesus  liatli  washed  away  our  sin, 

And  we  are  children  now; 
Who  feels  such  hope  as  this  within, 

To  evil  cannot  bow; 
Kather  with  Clirist  all  scorn  endure. 
So  we  be  like  our  Father,  pure! 

For  he  doth  please  the  Father  well 

W!io  simply  can  obey  ; 
In  him  the  love  of  God  dotii  dwell 

Who  steadfast  keeps  his  way ; 
A  daily  active  life  of  love. 
Such  fruits  a  living  faith  must  prove. 

He  is  in  God,  and  God  in  him. 

Who  still  abides  in  love ; 
'Tis  love  that  makes  the  cliernbini 

Obey  and  praise  above ; 
For  God  is  love,  the  loveless  heart 
Hath  in  his  life  and  joy  no  part. 

Lower  in  time  than  Gellert  we  need  not  come,  in  exhibit- 
ing the  religions  lyrics  of  Germany.  We  had  already,  before 
reaching  him,  passed  the  great  age  of  German  hymn-writing. 

From  sacred  song  to  secular,  we  may  very  naturally  make 
the  transition  in  Gellert.  Gellert  was  a  fabulist  in  verse — 
the  German  Lafontaine,  we  might,  ai)})ro.\;iniating  the  fact, 
pronounce  him — though  the  poet  liimself,  to  Frederick  the 
Great,  disclaimed  being  an  imitator  of  any  model.  The 
following  version  of  one  of  Gellert's  fables  in  metre,  we  take 
from  W.  Taylor's  Survey  of  German  Poetry : 

Her  vernal  song  a  nightingale  began, 
Hoping  to  please  the  pride  of  creatures,  man. 


150  Classic  German  Course  in  Knglish. 

Bojs,  who  were  plaj'ing  ia  a  meaduw  near, 
Pursued  their  bustling  sport  with  heedless  ear. 
Meanwhile  a  cuckoo,  from  a  neighboring  tree, 
Exclaims  "Cuckoo;  "  the  boys  repeat  with  glee. 
They  laiigli,  they  point  at  him,  they  join  his  song, 
And  ten  times  over  his  short  tune  prolong. 
The  cuckoo  turns  to  Philomela's  rest, 
"You  must  allow  they  like  my  singing  best." 

Soon  came  Damaetas,  with  his  lovely  bride. 

The  cuckoo  calls.     They  pass  with  sulky  pride. 

Not  long  the  nightingale  fell  envy's  pang; 

So  sweet,  so  shrill,  so  variously,  she  sang, 

That  Phillis  took  a  seat  upon  the  bank, 

And  looked  aloof,  with  glistening  eye,  her  thank. 

"  Now,  prater  (said  the  nightingale),  perceive 

How  pure  the  recompense  my  lays  receive; 

The  still  approval  of  one  silent  tear 

Is  more  than  vulgar  shouts  that  rend  the  ear." 

L  RamleWKarl  Wilhelm,  1 725-1 798)  was  the  German  Horace. 
He  both  translated  his  Roman  master  and  imitated  him. 
Here  is  one  of  Ramler's  imitations  of  Horace,  translated  into 
Englisli  by  W.  Taylor.  "  My  Kleist,"  a  personal  allusion 
quite  in  the  Horatian  manner,  means  a  brother  poet  of  the 
lyrist,  the  author  of  a  poem,  celebrated  in  its  day,  on  Spring. 
Kleist  was  the  German  Thomson.  Ramler's  ode  following 
is  inscribed  Winter: 

Storms  ride  the  air,  and  veil  the  sky  in  clouds, 
And  chase  the  thundering  streams  athwart  the  land; 
Bare  stand  the  woods ;  the  social  linden's  leaves 
Far  o'er  the  valleys  whirl. 

The  vine — a  withered  stalk ;  but  why  bewail 
The  godlike  vine?     Friends,  come  and  quaff  its  blood. 
Let  Autumn  with  his  emptied  horn  retire; 
Bid  fir-crowned  Winter  hail ! 

He  decks  the  flood  with  adamantine  shield, 
Wliich  lauglis  to  scorn  the  shafts  of  day.    Amazed 
The  tenants  of  the  wood  new  blossoms  view: 
Strange  lilies  strew  the  ground. 


Interlude  of  Poets.  151 

No  more  in  tottering  gondolas  tlie  brides 
Tremble ;  on  gliding  cars  they  boldly  scud; 
Hid  in  her  fir-clad  neck  the  favorite's  hand 
Asks  an  unneeded  warmtli. 

No  more  like  fishes  jilungo  the  bathing  boya; 
On  sleel-wing'd  shoes  they  skim  the  hardened  wave; 
The  spouse  of  Venus  in  the  glittering  blade 
Tlie  lightning's  swiftness  hid. 

0,  Winter,  call  thy  coldest  east-wind;  drive 
The  lingering  warriors  from  Boliemia  back, 
Willi  them  my  Kleist;  for  him  Lycoris  stays, 
And  his  friend's  tawny  wine. 

'^  Bih-gcr  (Gottfried  August,  1748-1794)  was  a  poet  who 
singularly  united  with  a  fiery  lyrical  genius,  willingness  to 
expend  on  liis  work  an  endless  labor  of  art.  His  life  was 
dissolute,  and  wretched,  accordingly,  to  an  exemplary  degree. 
Herder  turned  Biirgev's  attention  to  the  store  of  stuff  for 
poetry  to  be  found  in  the  rude  traditional  songs  of  the  peo- 
ple, and  Percy's  JReliqnes  further  helped  fix  the  bent  of  his 
genius  in  the  direction  of  ballad-writing.  Burger's  ballad 
of  Lenore  became  immensely  popular,  both  at  home  and 
abroad.  An  English  translation,  exhibiting  the  German  text 
in  parallel  pages,  was  issued  in  a  sumptuous  quarto  volume, 
with  elal)orate  illustrations.  Walter  Scott  paraphrased  the 
Lenore,  under  title,  William  and  Helen,  and  his  paraphrase 
is  on  the  whole  the  form  in  which  our  readers  will  best  enjoy 
seeing  a  condensation  of  the  poem.  The  legend  of  the  ballad 
is  that  a  soldier,  leaving  his  sweetheart,  went  away  to  the 
wars,  and  neither  returned  nor  made  report.  The  poor 
maiden,  ilriven  half  mad  Avith  love,  longing,  suspense,  de- 
spair, shocked  her  pious  mother  with  expressions  of  rebellion 
against  God.  The  mother  prays,  on  her  daughter's  behalf, 
a  deprecatory  prayer,  but  the  daughter  in  the  deep  of  night 
hears  a  summons  at  her  door.  It  is  the  voice  of  her  lover 
returned.  She  eagerly  lets  him  in,  but  lie  refuses  to  abide. 
She  must  forthwith  up  and  away  with  him  on  horseback,  to 
find  a  bridal  bed  afar.     She  hesitates,  but — and  now  Burger, 


152  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

in  Scott's  paraplirase,  which  must  make   up  to  tlie  English 
reader  in  spirit  what  it  loses  in  fidelity: 

Strong  love  prevailed:  she  busks,  she  bouues, 

She  mounts  the  barb  behind, 
And  round  her  darling  William's  waist 

Her  lily  arms  she  twined. 

And  hurry  !  hurry !  oflf  they  rode, 

As  fast  as  fast  might  be; 
Spurned  from  the  courser's  thundering  heels, 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

And  on  the  right  and  on  the  left, 

Ere  they  could  snatch  a  view, 
Fast,  fast  each  mountain,  mead,  and  plain. 

And  cot,  and  castle,  flew. 

"Sit  fast — dost  fear?     The  moon  shines  clear, 

Fleet  goes  my  barb — keep  hold ! 
Fear'st  thou  ?  "     "0  no  I  "  she  faintly  said ; 

"But  why  so  stern  and  cold? 

"  0  William,  why  this  savage  haste  ? 

And  where  thy  bridal  bed  ?  " 
"  'Tis  distant  far,  low,  damp,  and  chill, 

And  narrow,  trustless  maid." 

"  No  room  for  me  ?  "     "  Enough  for  both ; 

Speed,  speed,  my  barb,  thy  course !  " 
O'er  thundering  bridge,  through  boiling  surge, 

He  drove  the  furious  horse. 

Tramp!  tramp!  along  the  land  they  rode, 

Splash!  splash!  along  the  sea; 
The  scourge  is  wight,  the  spur  is  bright. 

The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

Fled  past  on  right  and  left  how  fast 

Each  forest,  grove,  and  bower! 
On  right  and  left  fled  past  how  fast 

Each  city,  town,  and  tower ! 

"Dost  fear?  dost  fear?    The  moon  sliincs  clear, 

And  well  the  dead  can  ride ; 
Does  faithful  Helen  fear  for  them  ?  " 

"  0  leave  in  peace  the  dead  I  " 


Interlude  of  Poets.  153 


"Barbl  barb!  niotliinks  I  hear  llic  cock; 

Tlie  saud  will  sooii  be  run ; 
Barbl  barb  !   I  smell  the  moniiug-  air; 

The  race  is  well-uigh  done." 

Tramp!  tramp!  along;  the  laud  llioy  rode, 
Splash!  splash!  along  the  sea; 

The  scourge  is  red,  the  spur  drops  blood. 
The  flashing  pebbles  flee. 

"Hurrah!  hurrah!  well  ride  the  dead ; 

The  bride,  the  bride  is  come ! 
And  soon  we  reach  the  bridal  bed, 

For,  Helen,  here's  my  home." 

Reluctant  on  its  rusty  hinge 

Revolved  an  iron  door, 
And  by  the  pale  moon's  setting  beam 

Were  seen  a  church  and  tower. 

With  many  a  shriek  and  cry  whiz  muml 
The  birds  of  midnight,  scared; 

And  rustling  like  autumnal  leaves, 
Unhallowed  ghosts  were  heard. 

O'er  many  a  tomb  and  tomb-stone  pale 

He  spurred  the  fiery  horse, 
Till  sudden  at  an  open  grave 
He  checked  the  wondrous  course. 

The  falling  gauntlet  quits  the  rein, 
Down  drops  the  casque  of  steel, 

Tlie  cuirass  leaves  his  shrinking  side. 
The  spur  his  gory  heel. 

The  eyes  desert  the  naked  skull, 
The  moldering  flesh  the  bone, 

Till  Helen's  lily  arms  entwine 
A  ghastly  skeleton. 

The  furious  barb  snorts  fire  and  foam, 

And,  with  a  fearful  bound. 
Dissolves  at  once  in  empty  air. 

And  leaves  lier  on  the  gi'ound. 

Half  seen  by  fits,  by  fits  half  heard, 

Palo  spectres  flit  along. 
Wheel  round  the  maid  in  dismal  dance. 

And  howl  tlie  funeral  song. 


154  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

p]'cii  when  the  heurt's  with  anguish  cleft, 

Revere  the  doom  of  Heaven. 
Her  soul  is  from  her  body  reft ; 

Her  spirit  be  forgiven  1 

Goethe's  Bride  of  Corinth  recalls  this  poem  of  Biirgev's. 
Neither  one  of  the  two  poems  can  be  called  an  agreeable 
.  production,  but,  of  the  two.  Burger's  is  the  less  disagreeable. 
To  us  it  seems  also  the  more  genuine.  Biii-ger's  is  written 
as  in  hut  blood  ;  Goethe's  is  perfectly  cold-blooded,  like  the 
bride  that  it  celebrates. 

Because  Longfellow  has  translated  it  so  charmingly,  as 
well  as  because  it  is  in  itself  so  short  and  so  sweet,  we  give 
from  Tiedge  (Christoph  August,  1752-1841),  a  gentle  and 
delicate  genius,  the  following  trifle,  entitled    The  Wave  of 

Life : 

"Whither,  thou  turbid  wave? 
Whither,  with  so  much  haste, 
As  if  a  thief  wert  tliou  ?  " 

"  I  am  the  Wave  of  Life, 
Stained  with  my  margin's  dust; 
From  the  struggle  and  the  strife 
Of  the  narrow  stream  I  fly 
To  the  sea's  immensity, 
To  wash  from  me  the  slime 
Of  tlie  muddy  banks  of  time." 

A  truly  remarkable  poet  was  Frederike  Sophie  Christ iane 
i.  Brun  (1765-1835) — at  least  to  English-speakers  remarkable 
and  memorable ;  if  only  for  that  one  poem  of  hers  which  was 
the  original  of  Coleridge's  celebrated  Hymn  in  the  Yale  of 
Chamoxini.  Readers  must  compare  this  English  poem,  if 
they  wish  to  feel  the  full  significance  of  the  following  piece 
by  Frederica  Brunn  (so  the  name  is  customarily  given  in 
English),  entitled  Chamouny  at  Sunrise : 

From  the  deep  shadow  of  the  silent  fir-grove 

I  lift  my  eyes,  and  trembling  look  on  thee. 

Brow  of  eternity,  thou  dazzling  peak. 

From  whose  calm  height  my  di earning  spirit  mounts 

And  sours  away  into  the  iufinitel 


Interlude  of  Poets.  155 


Who  sank  tlie  pillar  in  the  lap  of  earth, 

Down  deep,  the  pillar  of  eternal  rock. 

On  which  thy  mass  stands  tirm,  and  firm  hath  stood, 

While  centuries  on  centuries  rolled  along? 

Who  reared,  up-towering  through  the  vaulted  blue. 

Mighty  and  bold,  thy  radiant  countenance? 

Wlio  poured  you  from  on  high  with  thunder-sound, 

Down  from  old  winter's  everlasting  realm, 

0  jagged  streams,  over  rock  and  through  ravine? 

And  whose  almighty  voice  commanded  loud, 

"  Here  shall  the  sliflening  billows  rest  awhile  I  " 

Whose  finger  points  yon  morning  star  his  course? 
Who  fringed  with  blossom-wreaths  the  eternal  frost? 
Whose  name,  0  wild  Arveiron,  does  thy  din 
Of  waves  sound  out  in  dreadful  harmonies  ? 

'•Jehovah!  "  crashes  in  the  bursting  ice; 
Down  through  the  gorge  the  rolling  avalanche 
Carries  the  word  in  thunder  to  the  vales. 
"  Jehov-ah  I  "  murmurs  in  the  morning  breeze, 
Along  the  trembling  tree-tops  ;  down  below 
It  whispers  in  tlie  purling,  silvery  brooks. 

5*  Arndt  (Ernst  Movitz,  1769-1860)  lacked  only  the  conse- 
cration of  a  death,  like  Koriier's,  in  self-sacrifice  on  the  altar 
of  his  country,  to  be  as  dear  to  world-wide  fame  as  is  that 
young  patriot-martyr  of  Germany.  In  real  merit,  and  in  in- 
fluence as  popular  lyrist  of  freedom  and  nationality  for 
Germans,  Arndt  exceeded  Korner  hardly  less  than  he  did  in 
length  of  life-time  and  career.  Here  is  Arndt's  best-known 
lyric,  WJiat  is  the  Gernuai's  Fatherland?  It  may  be  doubted 
whether  either  Bismarck,  with  his  statecraft,  or  Von  Moltke, 
with  his  sword,  has  done  more  to  secure  German  unity  than 
did  Arndt  with  this  brave  tune  of  his  on  his  lyre  : 

Which  is  the  German's  fatherland? 

Is  't  Prussia's  or  Swabia's  land? 

Is  't  where  the  Rhine's  rich  vintage  streams? 

Or  where  the  Northern  sea-gull  screams  ? 

Ah,  no,  no,  no ! 
Tlis  fatherland's  not  bounded  so! 


156  Classic  German  Course  in  J^iujlish. 


Which  is  the  German's  fatherland  ? 
Come,  tell  me  now  the  famous  laud  ! 
Doubtless,  it  is  the  Austrian  state. 
In  honors  and  in  triumphs  great. 

Ah,  no,  no,  no  I 
His  fatherland's  not  bounded  so ! 

Wliich  is  the  German's  fatherland? 
So  tell  me  now  at  last  the  land  ! 
As  far's  the  German  accent  rings 
And  hymns  to  God  in  heaven  sings. 

That  is  the  land- 
There,  brother,  is  thy  fatherland  I 

That  is  the  German's  fatherland, 
Wliere  wrath  pursues  the  foreign  Ijand, 
Where  every  Frank  is  held  a  foe. 
And  Germans  all  as  brotliers  glow ; 

That  is  the  land — 
All  Germany's  thy  fatherland  I 

Our  readers  lose  five  of  Avndt's  stanzas,  but  they  miss  noth- 
ing of  the  spirit  of  the  song.  In  the  stanzas  retrenched, 
there  was  simply  an  accumulation  of  other  territorial  German 
names ;  the  poet  would  play  on  every  chord  within  his 
reach  of  national  feeling. 

^  The  Sword  Song  of  Karl  Theodor  Korner  (1791-1813)  was 
written  almost  literally  in  letters  of  blood.  The  heroic 
young  author  composed  it  at  twenty-two  years  of  age,  only 
an  hour  before  he  fell  on  the  field  of  battle  bravely  fighting, 
a  soldier  in  the  War  of  Liberation.  The  piece  forms  a  dia- 
logue carried  on  between  the  soldier  and  his  sword,  con- 
ceived as  already  betrothed  to  each  other,  but  still  aAvaiting 
battle  for  actual  marriage.  "Bridegroom"  and  "bride" 
bear  this  sense  in  German  usage.  With  the  "  Hurrah  ! " 
closing  each  stanza,  is  to  be  imagined  a  chorus  of  swords 
clanging.  Korner's  Sioord  Song  will  bear  abridgement  with- 
out serious  loss  of  effect.     We  part  with  eight  stanzas : 

"  Sword  at  my  left  side  gleaming  I 
Why  is  Ih}^  keen  glance,  beaming, 


Interlude  of  Poets.  157 


So  fondly  bent  on  mine  ? 
I  love  that  smile  of  tliine! 

Hurrah  I  " 

"  Borne  by  a  trooper  daring, 
My  looks  his  tire-glance  wearing, 
I  arm  a  freeman's  hand : 
This  well  delights  thy  brand  I 

Hurrah  1  " 

"  Ay,  good  sword  1     Free  I  wear  thee ; 
And,  true  heart's  love,  I  bear  thee, 
Betrothed  one,  at  my  side, 
As  my  dear,  chosen  bride  1 

Hurrah !  " 

'•  To  thee  till  death  united, 
Thy  steel's  bright  life  is  piighted; 
Ah,  were  my  love  but  tried  ! 
"When  wilt  thou  wed  thy  bride  ? 
Hurrah !  " 

"  The  trumpet's  festal  warning 
Shall  hail  our  bridal  morning ; 
When  loud  the  cannon  chide. 
Then  clasp  I  m}^  loved  bride  I 

Hurrah  I  " 

"  Well  may  thy  scabbard  rattle. 
Trooper,  I  pant  for  battle  ; 
Right  eager  for  the  fight, 
I  clang  with  wild  delight. 

Hurrah  !  " 

"  Come  from  thy  sheath,  then,  treasure  1 
Thou  trooper's  true  eye-pleasure  ! 
Come  forth,  my  good  sword,  come  1 
Enter  thy  father-home ! 

Hurrah  ! 

"  Come  on,  yo  German  horsemen  I 
Come  on,  ye  valiant  Norsemen  ! 
Swells  not  your  hearts'  warm  lide? 
Clasp  each  in  hand  his  bride! 

Hurraii !  " 


158  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Let  Riickert  (Fried rich,  1789-1866)  close  the  cycle  of 
German  patriot  lyrists.  Riickert  was  a  learned  Orientalist 
as  well  as  a  versatile  master  of  metres.  He  was  one  of  that 
numerous  band  of  spirited  Gernian  youths  tlirough  whom, 
during  the  War  of  Liberation,  the  fatherland  uttered  music- 
ally its  long-suppressed  cry  of  desire  for  life  from  the  dead. 
Professor  C.  C.  Felton  is  our  translator  for  the  following 
caustic  lyrical  sati]-e  of  Riickert's,  entitled,  The  Patriots 
Lament : 

"  What  forgest,  smith  ?  "     "  We're  forging  chains  ;  ay,  chains  !  " 
"  Alas  I  to  cliains  yourselves  degraded  are  !  " 
"  Why  plowest,  farmer?  "     "  Fields  tlieir  fruit  must  bear." 

"  Yes,  seed  for  foes  ;  the  burr  for  thee  remains  !  " 

"  What  aim'st  at,  sportsman?"  "  Yonder  stag,  so  fat." 
"To  hunt  you  down,  like  stag  and  roe,  they'll  try." 
"  What  suarest,  tisher?  "     "Yonder  fish,  so  shy." 

"  Who's  there  to  save  you  from  your  fatal  net  ?  " 

"What  art  thou  rocking,  sleepless  mother?"     "  Boys." 

"Yes;  let  them  grow,  and  wound  their  conniry's  fame, 
Slaves  to  her  foes,  with  parricidal  arm  !  " 

"  What  art  thou  writing,  poet  ?  "     "  Words  of  flame ; 
I  mark  my  own,  record  my  country's  harm, 

Whom  thought  of  freedom  never  more  employs." 

I  blame  them  not  who  with  the  foreign  steel 

Tear  out  our  vitals,  pierce  our  inmost  heart ; 

For  tliey  are  foes  created  for  our  smart, 
And  when  they  slay  us,  why  they  do  it,  feel. 

But,  in  these  paths,  ye  seek  what  recompense? 
For  you  wliat  brilliant  toys  of  fame  are  here. 
Ye  mongrel  foes,  who  lift  the  sword  and  spear 

Against  your  country,  not  tor  her  defense  ? 

Ye  Franks,  Bavarians,  and  ye  Swabians,  say. 

Ye  aliens,  sold  to  bear  the  slavish  name, 
What  wages  for  your  servitude  they  pay. 

Your  eagle  may  perchance  redeem  your  fame; 
More  sure  his  robber-train,  ye  birds  of  prey, 

To  coming  ages  shall  prolong  your  shame ! 


Interlude  of  Poets.  159 


Kerner  (Justimis  Andreas,  1786-1862)  had  a  delicate 
lyrical  vein  of  pathos,  almost  quaint  enough  sometimes  to 
be  humorous  in  effect.  The  following  piece,  translated  by 
the  sure  hand  of  our  American  Bryant,  is  a  fair  specimen: 

111  yonder  mill  I  rested, 

And  sat  me  down  to  look 
Upon  tlie  wheel's  quick  glimmer, 

And  on  tlie  flowing  brook. 

As  in  a  dream  before  me, 

The  saw,  with  restless  play, 
Was  cleaving  through  a  tir-lree 

Its  long  and  steady  way. 

The  tree  through  all  its  fibres 

With  living  motion  stirred, 
And,  in  a  dirge-like  miu'mur. 

These  solemn  words  I  heard  : 

"  0  thou  who  wauderest  hither, 

A  timely  guest  thou  art ! 
For  thee  this  cruel  engine 

Is  passing  through  my  heart. 

When  soon,  in  earth's  still  bosom, 

Thy  hours  of  rest  begin. 
This  wood  shall  form  the  chamber 

Whose  walls  shall  close  thee  in." 

Four  planks — I  saw  and  shuddered  — 

Dropped  in  that  busy  mill ; 
Then,  as  I  tried  to  answer. 

At  once  the  wheel  was  still. 

The  same  translating  touch,  that  of  ])ryant,  attracts  us  to 
one  other  lyrical  piece,  with  which  we  bring  our  "  Inter- 
lude of  Poets"  to  its  close.  This  is  from  Niclas  Miiller 
(1809-1875).     It  is  entitled.  The  Paradise  of  Tears: 

Beside  the  River  of  Tears,  with  brandies  low, 
And  bitter  leaves,  the  weeping  willows  grow; 
The  branches  stream  like  the  disheveled  hair 
Of  woman  in  the  sadness  of  desimir. 


160  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

On  rolls  the  stream  with  a  perpetual  sigh ; 
The  roL'ks  moan  wildl}'  as  it  passes  bj ; 
ti3"Ssop  iind  wormwood  border  all  the  strand, 
And  not  a  flower  adorns  the  dreary  land. 

Tlien  comes  a  child,  wliose  face  is  like  the  sun. 
And  dips  the  gloomy  waters  as  they  run. 
And  waters  all  the  region,  and  behold 
The  ground  is  bright  with  blossoms  manifold. 

Where  fall  the  tears  of  love,  the  rose  appears, 

And  where  the  ground  is  bright  with  friendship's  tears. 

Forget-me-not,  and  violets,  heavenly  blue, 

Spriug,  glittering  with  the  cheerful  drops  like  dew. 

The  souls  of  mourners,  all  whose  tears  are  dried, 
Like  swans,  come  gently  floating  down  the  tide. 
Walk  up  tlie  golden  sands  by  whicii  it  flows, 
And  in  that  Paradise  of  Tears  repose. 

There  every  heart  rejoins  its  kindred  heart  ; 
Tiiere  in  a  long  embrace  that  none  may  part, 
Fulfillment  meets  desire,  and  that  fair  shore 
Beholds  its  dwellers  happy  evermore. 

Our  "  Interlude  of  Poets  "  is  done.  It  was  a  concord  of 
voices  commingling  to  usher  and  herald  the  great  singer 
Goethe. 


IX. 

GOETHE. 

1749-1833. 


If  Luther  was  the  morning,  Goethe  was  the  meridian,  sun 
of  German  literature.  Schiller,  it  might  almost  be  said, 
rising  later  and  setting  earlier,  rode  rival  by  Goetlie's  side 
through  the  dazzling  zenith  arcs  of  the  sky.  But  these  two 
orbs,  both  so  large  and  so  splendid,  were  not  mutually  equal, 
either  in  largeness  or  in  splendor.  Schiller  was  the  less 
luminary;  and  of  him  it  is  praise  enough  to  say  that,  shining 
so  near  to  Goethe,  he  did  not  lose,  did  not  pale,  his  lustre  in 
the  blaze  of  the  superior  ray. 


Goethe.  161 

Johaiin  Wolfgang  von  Goetlie  was  born,  in  Frankfort-on- 
the-Main,  almost  exactly  in  tlie  middle  of  the  eighteenth  cent- 
ury. His  parentage  was  excellent  on  both  sides.  His  father 
was  a  tailor's  son  who  had  raised  himself  to  some  civic  dis- 
tinction, and  his  mother  was  daughter  to  the  chief  magistrate 
of  Frankfort.  The  father  was  more  than  twice  as  old  as  the 
mother  when  they  married;  she  indeed  was  a  blooming  young 
creature  of  only  seventeen  years  of  age.  Wolfgang  was  the 
first-born  of  the  pair.  The  mother  was  but  eighteen  years 
older  than  tlie  son.  There  thus  came  to  be  a  time  when  the 
two  could  share  between  them  a  fellowship  approaching  in 
kind  that  natural  between  those  nearly  equal  in  age.  This, 
tlie  temperament  of  the  mother — happy,  equable,  serene, 
perennially  young — made  additionally  easy.  Such  a  mother 
was  an  immeasurable  blessing  to  Goethe. 

The  father  was  a  very  diflferent  being.  Stern,  stiff,  opin- 
ionated, a  precisian,  a  ])edant,  he  was  well  fitted  to  balance 
the  equijmient  of  the  mother  with  qualities  needful  for  the 
training  of  the  boy  to  become  the  symmetrical,  all-accom- 
plished Goethe  whom  we  know.  Remarkable  among  the 
traits  of  the  elder  Goethe's  character  as  disciplinarian  to  his 
son  was  his  way  of  insisting  that  whatever  Wolfgang  began 
he  should  go  on  with  till  he  carried  it  to  completion. 

From  my  father  I  derive  my  frame  and  the  steady  guidance  of  my  life, 
and  from  my  dear  little  mother  my  happy  disposition  and  my  love  of 
story-telling. 

So  Goethe  says  and  sings  in  one  of  his  poems. 

The  early  years  of  Goethe  did  not  pass  without  yielding 
to  the  precocious  boy  much  premature  experience  of  life. 
This,  in  such  form  and  degree  as  he  thought  it  comportable 
with  his  dignity  to  indulge,  he  has  himsidf  shadowed  forth 
to  the  public,  directly  in  his  autobiography,  and  indirectly  in 
his  autobiographical  "  novel,"  the  Wilhelm  3felster.  He  con- 
tracted soil  to  the  innocence  of  youth — soil  which,  alas,  the 
practice  of  manliood  and  of  old  age  rather  inveterated  than 
removed.  But  the  father,  meantime,  did  not  remit  his  intel- 
lectual demands  on  his  boy;  and  his  boy  was  still  able  to 


162  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

respond,  for  he  was  magnificently  endowed  from  nature  to 
beai",  without  obvious  loss,  heavy  overdrafts  on  the  precious 
reserves  of  health  and  strength  and  youth.  Goethe  entered 
upon  man's  estate  ideally  well  furnished  to  run  the  long 
career  that  lay  before  him  of  successful  and  lauded  achieve- 
ment. It  is  even,  by  contrast  with  the  general  lot  of  the  race, 
almost  depressing  to  contemplate  the  worldly  prosperity  that 
arched,  like  one  day-long  cloudless  heaven,  over  the  whole 
life  of  this  man.  But,  stay! — when  is  it  well  to  be  envious? 
When  can  you  be  sure  that  you  are  envious  wisely?  Goethe, 
the  well-attempered,  the  prosperous,  the  fortunate,  of  whom, 
when  he  spoke,  listeners  said,  as  those  said  of  King  Herod, 
"  It  is  the  voice  of  a  god  and  not  of  a  man,"  he,  Goethe,  who 
smiled  and  smiled,  as  if  inaccessible  to  pain,  like  the  easy 
Olympian  divinities  of  Epicurus — this  Goethe,  what  did  he 
say  ?     He  said  to  Eckermann : 

I  have  ever  been  esteemed  one  of  Fortune's  chiefest  favorites ;  nor  can 
I  complain  of  the  course  ray  life  has  taken.  Yet,  truly,  there  has  been 
nothing  but  toil  and  care ;  and,  in  my  seventy -fifth  j'ear,  I  may  say  that 
I  have  never  had  four  weeks  of  genuine  pleasure. 

Let  us  deal  gently,  while  we  deal  justly,  with  a  happy  man 
of  this  world,  who,  at  seventy-five  years  of  age,  has  to  bear 
of  himself  a  testimony  like  that. 

Young  Goethe  went  at  sixteen  years  of  age  to  Leipsic,  to  con- 
tinue an  education  nobly  commenced  at  home.  At  Leipsic, 
he  devoted  himself  perhaps  more  to  the  seeing  and  the  en- 
joying of  life  than  to  the  prosecution  of  study.  He  had  thus 
early  formed  his  life-long  habit  of  turning  to  literary  ac- 
count his  own  experiences,  and  his  observations  of  himself 
and  of  the  world ;  and  his  three  years  at  Leipsic  gave  him 
both  the  matter  and  the  leisure  for  writing,  besides  a  score 
or  so  of  erotic  effusions,  two  plays — one  of  which,  The  Fel- 
low-Culprits, the  great  man  himself  retained  to  old  age  a 
sentiment  of  respectful  fondness  for,  which  the  critics  and 
the  general  public  have  hardly  shared  with  the  illusti'ious 
author.  Recalled  from  Leipsic,  young  Goethe,  after  an 
eighteen  months'  interval  of  unwilling  sojourn  at  home,  was 


Goethe.  163 

entered,  at  twenty-one  years  of  age,  a  student  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Strasburg.  This  change  in  situation  was  of  the 
greatest  importance  to  Goethe.  At  Strasburg,  as  has  already 
in  a  preceding  chapter  appeared,  he  met  in  Herder  his  own 
intellectual  destiny.  Goethe  never  lost  the  impulse  and 
direction  then  given  his  genius  from  Herder's  overmastering 
hand.  His  stay  in  Strasburg  was  for  scarcely  more  than 
eighteen  months;  but  they  were  eighteen  months  to  Goethe 
of  the  most  pi-egnant  experience.  It  was  while  a  student  at 
Strasburg  that  this  brilliant,  gay,  and  handsome  youth,  pre- 
pared beforehand  for  it  by  repeated  experiments  in  love- 
making  and  love-breaking,  took  on  himself  to  act,  in  real 
life,  almost  with  conscious  self-indulgence,  half  play,  half 
earnest,  the  part  of  Thornhill  in  Goldsmith's  Vicar  of  Wake- 
field. The  circumstances  of  this  case  are  historic,  they 
likewise  belong  to  literature,  and  to  Goethe's  own  part  in  lit- 
erature; all  this,  for  Goethe  has  recounted  them  at  length  in 
his  autobiograi)hy. 

We  may  thus,  at  the  present  point,  and  that  in  the  very 
act  of  proceeding  with  our  sketch  begun  of  Goethe's  life, 
enter  immediately  upon  our  presentation  of  Goethe's  literary 
works. 

Goethe's  autobiography,  published  under  the  title  of 
Truth  and  Fiction  relating  to  My  Life  (so  the  German  ex- 
pression is  usually  translated,  but  Poetry  and  Truth  out  of 
My  Life,  would  be  more  literal),  is  generally  considered,  and 
justly,  one  of  its  author's  most  important  productions.  It 
was  written  in  the  full  mellow  ripeness  of  Goethe's  unwith- 
ering  age,  and  it  constitutes  as  noteworthy  a  self-portrayal 
as  exists  anywhere  in  literature.  Goethe  himself,  it  must 
be  remembered,  is  of  at  least  as  much  consequence  in  the 
world  of  intellect  as  is  the  total  sura  of  all  the  man's  writ- 
ings, apart  from  the  man.  The  key  to  Goethe's  literary 
product  is  Goethe  himself.  Never  was  the  personality  of  a 
man  of  letters  more  inseparable  than  is  Goethe's  from  the 
books  that  he  wrote.  Hence  the  capital  importance,  in  order 
to  gaining  a  clear  and  true  idea  of  Goethe  the  author,  of 


164  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

gaining  a  clear  and  true  idea  of  Goethe  the  man.  This  we 
can  in  no  other  way  so  directly  do,  and  do  so  satisfactorily, 
as  by  studying  his  autobiography. 

The  autobiography  is  a  work  of  considerable  volume — 
much  larger,  for  instance,  than  this  entire  book.  Our  only 
way,  then,  at  once  effective  and  practicable,  of  proceeding 
in  the  business  will  be  to  take  from  that  work  an  important 
section  or  episode  of  it,  and,  presenting  this  condensed,  let 
the  part  thus  severed  stand  imperfectly,  but  fairly,  representa- 
tive of  the  whole.  There  is  in  the  autobiography  of  Goethe 
no  better  episode  for  our  purpose  than  the  famous  episode 
of  Frederica,  already  alluded  to.  This  is  extensively  and 
elaborately  treated  by  Goethe ;  it  is  highly  interesting  in  it- 
self, and  it  is,  to  a  singular  degree,  characteristic,  both  of 
the  man  and  of  the  writer.  In  it,  Goethe  will  be  found,  of 
course,  far  from  fully,  but  in  unexpectedly  large  measure,  re- 
vealed. This,  not  only  because  the  incident  related  is  such, 
but,  still  more,  because  the  incident,  being  such,  is  so  related 
by  the  autobiographer.  The  incident  occurred,  it  is  true, 
when  Goethe  was  a  young  man;  but  Goethe  was  a  man  of 
sixty  and  upward  when  he  related  the  incident.  We  enjoy, 
therefore,  a  valuable  opportunity  to  see,  first,  the  man  be- 
having himself  in  a  certain  way,  and  then  the  man,  grown 
forty  years  older,  deliberately  taking  a  certain  view  of  him- 
self so  behaving. 

Herder,  it  seems,  had  introduced  Goethe  to  Goldsmith's 
tale,  reading  it  aloud,  in  German  translation,  to  him,  with 
others,  as  a  study  in  literary  art.  Goethe,  so  Goethe's  own 
narrative  informs  us,  drew  on  himself  the  rebuke  of  Herder 
for  becoming  too  much  interested  in  the  story  as  story,  to 
pay  it  due  attention  as  a  consummate  piece  of  literary  work- 
manship. He  says — but  first  we  need  to  explain.  In  connec- 
tion with  the  Vicar  of  Wakefield,  a  companion  of  Goethe's 
had  spoken  of  knowing  a  pastor's  family  in  Sesenheira,  a  few 
miles  from  Strasburg,  the  exact  counterpart  of  the  clergy- 
man's family  in  the  English  novel.  It  was  resolved  between 
the  two  that  they  pay  Sesenheim  a  visit.     Goethe  ingrati- 


Goethe.        '  165 

ated  himselt'  successfully,  and  won  the  heart  of  the  lovely 
daughter  Frederica.  This  had  already  happened,  when, 
during  a  second  visit  to  Sesenheini — which,  though  unan- 
nouncerl,  the  "irl,  wise  throuoh  the  forebodiuo;  of  love,  had 
expected — some  lady  guest  suggested  certain  novels.  Goethe 
says : 

I  had  the  Vicar  of  Wakrjidd  on  the  tip  of  my  tongue;  but  did  not  vent- 
ure to  propose  it,  the  similarity  of  the  situations  being  too  striking  and 
too  important. 

This  is  one  only  of  many  allusions  made  by  Goethe,  in  the 
course  of  his  story,  to  Goldsmith's  novel,  going  to  show  how 
conscious  all  the  time  he  was  wliat  part  he  was  playing.  If 
the  man  of  sixty-three  had  been  making  late  expiation  for 
the  errors  of  youth  by  telling  them  now,  in  bitter  confession, 
to  his  own  shame  !  But,  alas,  there  is  no  such  strain  of  feel- 
ing discoverable  in  his  autobiographical  warming-over  of 
those  experiences  of  his.  This  wanton  lover — so,  from  his 
own  expressions,  it  unmistakably  appears — knew  that  he 
meant  nothing  serious  for  himself,  by  what  was  so  serious 
to  the  girl.  Goethe,  having  just  spoken  of  contemplating  at 
leisure,  dui-ing  his  visit  to  Sesenheim,  "  the  state  in  which 
young  people  are  placed  tv/iose  early  affectlo)is  can  promise 
themselves  no  lasting  result,''^  says: 

My  passion  increased,  tlie  more  I  learned  to  know  tiie  virtue  of  the 
excellent  girl;  and  the  time  approaciied  when  I  was  to  lose,  pei'haps  for- 
ever, so  mucli  that  was  dear  and  good. 

On  the  same  page,  Goethe  indicates  his  approval  of  a 
principle  in  morals  that,  if  sound,  should  have  made  him — 
for  he  faithfully  carried  it  out — a  happier  man  in  life  than, 
according  to  his  own  testimony,  he  actually  was.  A  man, 
he  says — note  this,  it  is  a  very  important  self-disclosure — is 
always  uneasy. 

Until  he  once  for  all  makes  a  resolution   to  declare  that  that  is   rigid 
which  is  suitable  to  himself. 

How  long  this  "  buccaneering  bee  "  remained  in  the  heart 
of  the  Sesenlieim  flcnver,  ritliiig  it  of  its  sweets,  it  is  impossi- 


166  Classic  German  Course  in  Miglish. 

ble  from  the  autobiography  to  determine.  Goethe,  describ- 
ing witli  enthusiasm  the  beauty  of  tliat  season  of  weather 
"  in  this  noble  country,"  says,  "  For  months  together,  we 
were  favored  with  pure  ethereal  mornings;  "  as  if  his  sojourn 
at  Sesenheim,  interrupted  by  visits  to  Strasburg,  continued 
all  summer.  He  says  expressly  that  he  and  Frederica  ex- 
changed assurances  of  mutual  love  and  confidence.  But 
Goethe — it  was  Goethe's  lips  only  that  sj^oke;  his  heart,  or  at 
least  his  conscience  and  his  will,  were  unsworn.  He  went  away 
from  his  "  beloved,"  apparently  without  explanation.  He  says: 

When  I  reached  her  my  hand  from  my  horse,  the  tears  stood  in  her 
eyes  and  I  felt  very  uneasy. 

Goethe  was  doing  what  was  "  suitable  to  himself,"  and  still 
he  felt  "very  uneasy."  His  uneasiness,  however,  he  compels 
us  to  feel,  was  more  for  the  pleasure  he  was  himself  renounc- 
ing, than  for  the  pain  he  was  inflicting  on  Frederica.  For, 
as  to  himself,  he  reassuringly  says: 

Having  at  last  escaped  the  excitement  of  a  farewell,  I,  on  a  peaceful 
and  quiet  journey,  pretty  well  regained  my  self-possession. 

Goethe  thinks  that  the  chastening  efiect  on  himself,  of  the 
loss  he  experienced  in  throwing  away  Frederica,  really  im- 
proved his  manners  in  society — by  making  him  less  storniily 
and  overwhelmingly  brilliant  than  he  had  been  before.  He 
says: 

I  had  in  secret  to  complain  of  a  love  I  had  lost ;  this  made  me  mild 
and  pliant,  and  more  agreeable  to  society  than  in  those  brilliant  times 
when  notliing  reminded  me  of  a  want  or  a  fault,  and  I  went  storming 
along  completely  without  restraint. 

Such  sentiment  as  reveals  itself  in  the  immediately  fore- 
going expression  would,  in  the  case  of  an  average  man,  be 
termed  self-conceit.  In  the  case  of  Goethe,  the  usage  is  to 
dignify  it  by  the  name  of  egotism. 

We  shall  not  have  done  full  justice  to  Goethe  in  his  relation 
to  Frederica  without  quoting  from  him  still  other  expressions 
on  the  subject : 

Frederica's  answer  to  my  farewell  letter  rent  my  heart.  It  was  the 
same  hand,  tlie  same  tone  of  thought,  the  same  feeling,  whicli  had  formed 


Goethe.  167 

itself  for  me  and  by  me.  I  now,  for  the  first  time,  felt  the  loss  which  she 
siift'ered,  and  saw  no  means  to  supply  it,  or  even  to  alleviate  it.  She  was 
completely  present  to  mo  ;  I  always  felt  that  she  was  wanting  to  me ;  and, 
wliat  was  worst  of  all,  I  could  not  forgive  myself /w  my  own  misjorlune. 
Gretclien  liad  been  taken  away  from  me;  Annette  had  left  me;  now,  for 
the  first  time,  I  was  guilty.  I  had  wounded  the  most  lovely  heart  to  its 
very  depths ;  iind  the  period  of  a  gloomy  repentance,  with  the  absence 
of  a  refreshing  love,  to  which  I  had  grown  accustomed,  was  most  ago- 
nizing, na}-,  insupportable. 

Once  more.     Goethe  says  : 

At  the  time  when  I  was  pained  by  my  grief  at  Frederica's  situation, 
I  again,  after  my  old  fashion,  sought  aid  from  poetrj'.  I  again  continued 
the  poetical  confession  which  I  had  connneueed,  iliat,  by  this  self-tor- 
menting penance,  I  might  be  worthy  of  an  internal  absolution. 

The  plan  of  resort  to  the  "  self-tormenting  penance "  of 
"  poetical  confession,"  by  way  of  deserving  "  internal  abso- 
lution," was  not  new  with  that  distinguished  French  practi- 
tioner, Lamartine.  Before  the  Frenchman,  Goethe  had  tried 
it,  and  it  had  proved — highly  "  suitable  to  himself."  For  the 
satisfaction  of  thoughtful  and  candid  readers,  it  is  proper  for 
us  to  add  that  we  have  given  here,  not  specimens  merely  of 
what  Goethe  had  to  say  in  the  way  of  self-blame  and  re- 
morse for  his  behavior,  but  eoery  thing  of  this  sort  that  he 
said.  Dr.  Hedge,  in  his  Hours  loith  German  Classics,  re- 
marks :  "  Her  [Frederica's]  suftering  in  the  separation,  great 
as  it  was — so  great,  indeed,  as  to  cause  a  dangerous  attack 
of  bodily  disease — could  not  outweigh  the  pangs  which  he 
[Goethe]  endured  in  his  penitent  contemplation  of  the  con- 
sequences of  his  folly."  We  must  venture  to  think  that  Dr. 
Hedge  here  came  to  his  conclusion  prompted  by  considering 
what  would  have  been  his  own  feeling  in  the  case,  rather 
than  guided  by  recent  study  of  the  records  that  fatally 
reveal  Goethe's  feeling. 

Frederica  nev(n'  married.  "To  her,  perpetual  maiden- 
hood," but  unto  him — a  long  dissolving-view  of  "relations" 
with  women. 

We  transfer  to  our  pages  a  touch  or  two  more,  bestowe<l 
by  the  lingering  and  loving  hand  of  the  Narcissus-like  artist. 


168  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

turning  still,  as  he  retires,  to  survey  anew  with  approval  the 
picture  of  himself  that  he  has  made;  and  so  take  our  leave  of 
Frederica's  story.  Goethe  had  the  good  taste  and  fine  feel- 
ing to  go  and  see  Frederica,  simply  pay  the  heart  he  had 
wrung  a  visit  of  curiosity!  after  an  interval  of  years  from  the 
time  of  his  abandoning  her.  He  himself,  in  his  aixtobiography, 
by  way  of  anticipation,  relates  the  incident — with  character- 
istic self-conceited  detail.  He  relates  it  in  connection  with  a 
presentiment  and  a  quasi-ocular  illusion  experienced  by  him, 
as  he  says,  immediately  alter  he  had  given  the  poor,  tearful 
child  that  heartless  good-bye  from  on  horseback,  and  rode  off 
feeling  "  very  uneasy."  Speaking  of  himself,  just  haj)pily 
escaped,  on  that  occasion,  from  the  "  excitement  of  a  fare- 
well," he  says : 

I  now  rode  nlotig  tiie  footpath  toward  Drusenheim,  and  here  one  of  the 
most  singular  forebodings  took  posse.«sion  of  me.  I  saw,  not  witli  the 
eyes  of  the  body,  but  with  tliose  of  the  mind,  my  own  figure  [his  own 
figure,  Goetlie  was  very  Hkely  at  all  times  to  see]  coming  toward  me,  on 
horseback,  and  on  the  same  road,  attired  in  a  dress  which  I  liad  never 
worn.  It  was  pike-gray,  with  somewhat  of  gold.  As  soon  as  I  shook 
myself  out  of  this  dream,  the  figure  had  entirely  disappeared.  It  is 
strange,  however,  that  eight  3'ears  aftei'ward  I  found  myself  on  the  very 
road,  to  pay  one  more  visit  to  Frederica.  in  the  dress  of  which  I  had 
dreamed,  and  which  I  wore,  not  from  choice,  but  by  accident.  However 
it  may  be  with  matters  of  tliis  kind  generally,  this  strange  illusion  in 
some  measure  calmed  me  at  the  moment  of  parting.  The  pain  of  quitting 
forever  noble  Alsace,  with  all  I  had  gained  in  it,  was  softened. 

Goethe  was  a  prosperous  man  in  Weimar,  at  the  time 
when  the  humor  thus  took  him  to  see  how  Frederica  would 
look  in  his  eyes  now,  after  the  lapse  of  eight  years.  He 
had  meanwhile  formed  a  memorable  relation  with  a  distin- 
guished married  woman,  Frau  von  Stein.  To  that  Weimar 
lady,  he  promptly  wr^te  an  account  of  this  visit  of  his  to 
Frederica,  and  added  the  last  insult  to  an  injured  memory 
by  saying,  with  a  grossness  of  gratuitous  exoneration  of 
which  nothing  but  dense  egotism  like  Goethe's  could  render 
a  man  unconsciously  capable: 

I  must  do  her  [Frederica]  the  justice  to  say  that  she  did  not  aitempt,  by 

the  slightest  allusion,  to  awaken  in  my  soul  the  old  feeling. 


Goethe.  169 

And  that  to  a  woman!  Frederica,  surviving  a  nearly  fatal 
illness  that  followed  her  betrayal,  lived  long  enough,  a  min- 
istering angel  to  the  needy,  to  have  read  Uoethe's  story  of 
herself  in  print  ;  for  it  did  not  shame  this  inconceivable 
man  to  publish  his  autobiography,  with  the  account  in  it  of 
Frederica,  not  omitting  names  for  identification,  while  his 
victim  was  still  living. 

So  much  for  Goethe's  autobiography.  It  would  be  unjust 
not  to  say  that  many  things  to  be  found  in  the  book  pre- 
sent the  a'uthor  in  an  aspect  more  engaging  than  that  in 
which  he  has  just  now  appeared.  One  such  more  engaging 
exhibition  of  himself,  on  Goethe's  part,  we  have  ourselves 
already  submitted  to  our  readers.  We  refer  to  the  long 
passage  in  which  Goethe  pays  his  tribute  to  Herder.  Goe- 
the, we  have  no  doubt,  was  an  agreeable  man  to  know.  He 
was  cheerful,  obliging,  urbane.  He  was  neither  jealous  nor 
envious.  He  seldom  contradicted.  There  is  a  placid  amen- 
ity diffused  over  the  pages  of  his  autobiography,  by  no 
means  unattractive;  albeit  you  feel  all  the  time  that  this  plaj's, 
a  sheen  of  iridescence  only,  on  a  surface  beneath  which  sink 
soundless  depths  of  self-complacency  imperturbable.  We 
assume  it  as  certain  that,  in  this  genial  attribute  of  affability, 
the  autobiographer  is  a  true  reflex  of  the  social  living  Goethe. 
Whoever  wishes  to  get  the  most  entirely  pleasing  impression 
obtainable  of  this  great  German,  through  words  proceeding 
directly  from  himself,  should  read  Eckermann's  Conversations 
with  Goethe. 

Goethe,  after  running  through  who  knows  how  many 
episodes  of  love  more  or  less  resembling  that  with  Frederica 
("  Goethe's  life  was  at  no  time  complete  without  the  influ- 
ence of  a  noble-hearted  woman,"  is  the  way  in  whicli  the 
tender-footed  author  of  the  article  on  Goethe  in  the  Ency- 
clojKedia  Britannica  puts  it) — Goethe,  we  say,  well-seasoned 
with  much  experience,  picked  up,  at  thirty-nine,  a  girl  met 
casually  in  tlie  public  park,  whom,  eighteen  years  after,  she 
having  meantime  become  to  him  the  mother  of  children,  he 
married.  During  this  long  interval  of  eighteen  years,  C'liris- 
8 


170  Classic  German  Course  in  Eaylish. 

tiane  Vulpius  was  in  Goethe's  house,  unrecognized  by  society, 
as  it  were  a  domestic  menial.  She  did  not  sit  at  her  master's 
table  to  meet  his  company.  What  we  thus  set  down  is  in- 
herently so  incredible,  that,  lest  we  should  seem  to  be  wrong- 
ing Goethe,  we  transfer  to  our  pages  tlie- gentle  account  of 
the  matter  given  by  the  Encyclopcedia  Brltannica : 

"In  the  autumn  of  1788,  walking  aimlessly  through  the 
park,  he  met  Christiane  Vulpius,  a  young  girl,  who  presented 
him  with  a  petition  in  favor  of  her  brother.  She  had  golden 
curling  locks,  round  cheeks,  laugliing  eyes,  a  neatly  rounded 
figure;  she  looked,  as  has  been  said,  '  like  a  young  Diony- 
sus.' Goethe  took  her  into  his  house,  and  slie  became  his 
wife  in  conscience,  and  the  mother  of  his  children.  He  did 
not  marry  her  till  1806,  when  the  terrors  of  the  French  oc- 
cupation made  him  anxious  for  the  position  of  his  eldest  son. 
She  had  but  little  education,  and  he  could  not  take  her  into 
society;  but  she  made  him  a  good  and  loving  wife,  and  her 
quick  mother- wit  made  her  available  as  an  intellectual  com- 
panion. To  these  days  of  early  married  life  belong  the  Ro- 
man elegies,  which,  although  Italian  and  pagan  in  form,  in 
color,  and  in  sensuality,  were  written  in  Germany  from  home 
experiences."  Is  it  not  curious,  by  the  way,  that  a  woman, 
through  her  "quick  raother-wit,"  "  available  as  an  intellectual 
companion"  to  the  first  literary  man  in  Europe,  should  have 
been  unfit  for  "  society  "  through  her  "  little  education  ?  " 

Such  was  the  clay  and  the  iron  in  the  mingled  image  of 
Goethe;  it  was,  at  most,  only  his  head  that  was  of  fine  gold. 

But  kindly  and  thoughtful  readers  may  ask,  "  Were  not 
the  manners  of  the  times  such  as  to  constitute  a  virtual  ex- 
cuse for  Goethe  ?  "  "  The  manners  of  the  times  "  is  a  phrase 
better  exchanged,  in  the  present  case,  for  "  the  manners  of 
Weimar."  It  is  Weimar,  Goethe's  residence,  rather  than 
the  times  in  which  Goethe  flourished,  that  must  be  invoked 
to  save  Goethe,  if  he  be  saved  at  all.  But  who  made  Wei- 
mar what  it  was  ?  Weimar  was  Goethe.  Apropos  of  this 
matter,  it  is  mortifying  to  be  obliged  to  quote  Schiller,  writ- 
ing to  his  friend  Korner,  as  follows : 


Goethe.  171 

He  [Goetlie]  is  getting  old  [Goethe  was  fort3'-one].  ...  I  fear  lie  will 
be  committing  au  act  of  folly.  ...  He  cohabits  with  a  Mamselle  Vul- 
pius,  who  has  a  child  by  him.  ...  It  is  very  probable  that  he  will  marry 
her  in  a  year  or  so.  I  should  be  sorry  to  see  him  finish  by  such  au  act 
of  genius — for  people  will  not  be  wanting  to  call  it  such. 

Korner's  reply  sliows  that  Goethe's  conduct  was  of  "  Wei- 
mai',"  that  is,  of  Goethe  himself,  rather  than  of  the  "  times." 
Korner  writes: 

At  Weimar,  the  ideas  on  concubinage  seem  to  differ  widely  from  those 
in  Berlin. 

Ten  years  having  passed,  and  Goethe  having  not  yet  com- 
mitted the  "act  of  genius"  deprecated  by  Schiller,  Korner 
writes  again  to  his  friend: 

One  cannot  violate  good  morals  and  go  unpunished.  At  the  proper 
time,  he  [Goethe]  could  easily  have  found  a  loving  wife,  and  what  a  dif- 
ferent existence  would  then  have  been  his !  The  other  sex  has  a  nobler 
destiny  than  to  be  degraded  to  be  the  mere  instruments  of  sensuality.  .  .  . 
Connections  of  this  description  worry  a  man  of  the  strongest  mind  to  death. 

That,  in  writing  such  words  for  virtue  as  those  just  given, 
Korner  should  stand  alone,  in  this  correspondence  between 
him  and  Schiller,  is  an  immeasurable  pity  for  Schiller's  fame. 

The  thing  "  suitable  to  himself"  had  not,  it  seems,  after 
all,  eventuated  very  happily  for  Goethe,  in  his  relation  with 
Christiane  Vuli)iiis.  The  serene  Olympian  was  "  worried." 
He  had,  together  with  other  things,  to  justify  himself  to  his 
friend  Charlotte  von  Stein.  Writing  to  this  lady,  concern- 
ing his  relation  to  Christiane,  he  begs  to  know  wherein  any 
one  was  wronged  by  what  he  did.     He  uses  this  language: 

Wlio  claims  the  feelings  which  I  give  to  tlio  poor  thing? 

'■^  Poor  thbi(j  P  This  said  by  him,  compassionately  per- 
haps, of  the  woman  he  has  chosen  to  make  her  the  mother  of 
his  son  and  heir  !  Said,  too,  in  self-exculpation;  and  said  to 
another  woman  ;  and  that  other  woman  the  wife  of  another 
man  ! 

In  that  same  year  in  which  he  finished  his  memorable 
stay  at  Strasburg,  Goetlie,  now  twenty-two  years  of  age, 
wrote  a  work  destined  to  render  him  instantly  famous.    This 


172  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

was  the  Goetz  von  Berlichingen — a  play  which  enjoyed  the 
English  distinction  of  being  translated  by  young  Walter 
Scott.  Herder  inspired  Goethe  to  this  production,  by  mak- 
ing him  acquainted  with  Shakespeare ;  and  it  is  not  impossi- 
ble that  Goethe,  in  his  turn,  by  the  example  of  tliis  play,  may 
have  influenced  Scott  to  undertake  those  rehabilitations  in 
fiction  of  vanished  times  and  manners  which  were  soon  to 
make  the  author  of  the  Waverley  Novels  one  of  the  universally 
recognized  lords  of  literature.  Goetz  von  Berlichingen,  the 
hero  of  Goethe's  play,  was  a  sixteenth-century  character,  a 
man  born  out  of  due  time — as  it  were,  the  last  of  the  barons. 
Merck  helped  Goethe  rewrite  his  play  for  publication — how 
much  his  help  may  have  been  worth,  we  shall  never  know  — 
and  he  served  Goethe  variously  in  other  ways.  Goethe 
rewarded  his  friend  by  afterward  making  him  in  part  the 
suggestive  type  of  his  Mephistopheles  (or  devil)  in  the 
Miust.  Another  friend  of  Goethe's,  Herder,  Hermann  Grimm 
thinks,  supplied  what  Merck  lacked  to  complete  the  poet's 
diabolic  ideal.  To  make  the  friendly  reward  full  measure, 
Goethe,  in  the  case  of  Merck  at  least,  duly  reveals  this  use 
of  his  friend  to  the  public. 

Goethe's  Goetz  was  emphatically  what,  in  stereotyped 
phrase,  is  styled  an  "  epoch-making"  production.  It  took 
sudden  and  violent  possession  of  the  literary  mind  of  Ger- 
many, The  press  teemed  with  books  reproducing  it  or 
imitating  it,  in  form  or  in  spirit.  The  famous  "Storm  and 
Stress"  or  '•  Storm  and  Pressure"  [Sturm  u)id  Drang)  period 
in  German  literature  resulted.  This  is  a  title  given  to  ex- 
press the  violence,  the  excess,  the  rebellion  against  law, 
which  characterized  the  literary  spirit  of  that  time.  It  was 
not  real  passion,  but  it  was  passion  simulated  in  extravagant 
travesty.  Real  power,  however,  or  the  promise  of  real 
power,  there  was,  in  the  Goetz  von  Berlichingen.  Shakes- 
pearean it  was  not,  for  it  was  not  action,  but  only  dialogue 
about  action.  Still,  compared  with  what  before  existed  in 
German  literature,  Goethe's  Goetz  was  an  ap]M-oxi.mation  to 
Shakespeare.     The  play  was  written  in  prose.     It  never,  we 


Goethe.  173 

believe,  was  acted  but  once,  and  then  the  representation 
lasted  live  hours.  Of  this  work  of  the  young  Titan,  we  shall 
not  need  to  show  any  specimen  to  our  readers. 

There  now  followed  from  Goethe's  pen  a  kind  of  romance, 
entitled  The  'Sorrows  of  Young  Werther.  This  was  a  piece 
of  writing  so  extravagant  that  no  magazine  editor  of  these 
days  in  England  or  America  would  think  of  admitting  such 
a  contribution  to  his  pages,  unless  perhaps  as  an  extrava- 
ganza confessed.  Werther  is  a  tale  of  love,  despair,  and  sui- 
cide, told,  all  but  the  final  act  itself,  in  letters  from  Werther, 
the  subject;  hero  certainly  we  cannot  call  Werther.  The 
story  is  founded  on  fact,  is  indeed  strict  fact  very  thinly  dis- 
guised. In  the  fact,  Goethe  was  himself  deeply  concerned. 
He  loved  a  Avoman  who  was  engaged  to  be  another  man's 
wife.  That  man  was  his  own  intimate  friend.  The  betrothed 
lovers  admitted  Goethe  freely,  without  jealousy,  to  share  their 
friendship.  But  the  strain  was  too  much  for  Goethe,  and  he — 
probably,  as  it  is  said,  well  advised  by  Merck — tore  himself 
away  from  his  dangerous  proximity  to  the  object  of  his  im- 
proper affection.  Coming  back  again  at  length,  in  his  wan- 
derings, to  Wetzlar,  he  there  found  that  a  tragedy  in  real 
life  had  been  enacted,  strikingly,  in  its  earlier  part,  like  that 
late  experience  of  his  own.  A  man  by  the  name  of  Jerusa- 
lem, an  acquaintance  of  Goethe's,  had,  like  himself,  loved  the 
beloved  (in  this  case,  the  wife)  of  another,  and  had  shot  himself 
in  despair.  Goethe  saw  his  literary  account  in  the  affiiir,  and 
he  immediately  wrote  his  romance,  mingling  the  circum- 
stances of  his  own  case  with  those  of  poor  Jerusalem.  Wer- 
ther is  Goethe  aw7  Jerusalem,  both  at  once.  His  two  friends, 
the  Lolte  whom  he  had  loved  and  fled  from,  and  Kestner 
who  had  now  married  her,  Goethe  unhesitatingly  put  into 
his  literary  mill  and  ground  them  up  for  paint,  to  decorate 
his  romantic  canvas  witlial.  They  felt  it,  resented  it,  com- 
plained of  it,  and — seem  finally  to  have  forgiven  it,  on 
Goethe's  making  some  sort  of  apology. 

The  strange,  and,  tQ  our  modern  sense,  tasteless,  manner 
in    which    the    realistic    and    the    sentimental    are    mixed 


174  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

in  Werther,  may  be  shown  by  the  contrast  of  the  following 
two  passages — which  will  be  felt  to  be  quite  sufficient  in 
specimen  of  such  literature. 

Werther  is  made  by  Goethe  to  describe  the  circumstances 
of  his  first  meeting  with  Charlotte  (for  Goethe  was  little 
delicate  enough  even  to  preserve  in  his  romance  the  very 
name  of  his  friend): 

I  walked  across  the  court  to  a  well-built  house,  and,  ascending  the 
flight  of  steps  in  front,  opened  the  door  and  saw  before  me  the  raost 
charming  spectacle  I  had  ever  witnessed.  Six.  children,  from  eleven  to 
two  years  old,  were  running  about  the  hall,  and  surrounding  a  lady  of 
middle  height,  with  a  lovely  figure,  dressed  in  a  robe  of  simple  white 
trimmed  with  pink  ribbons.  She  was  holding  a  rye  loaf  in  her  hand, 
and  was  cutting  slices  for  the  little  ones  all  round,  in  proportion  to 
their  age  and  appetite.  She  performed  her  task  in  a  graceful  and  affec- 
tionate manner,  each  claimant  awaiting  his  turn  with  outstretched  hands 
and  boisterously  shouting  his  thanks.  Some  of  them  ran  away  at  once 
to  enjoy  their  evening  meal,  while  others,  of  a  gentler  disposition,  re- 
tired to  the  court-yard  to  see  the  strangers  and  to  survey  the  carriage 
in  which  their  Charlotte  was  to  drive  away.  "Pray  forgive  me  for 
giving  you  the  trouble  to  come  for  me  and  for  keeping  the  ladies  wait- 
ing ;  but  dressing,  and  arranging  some  household  duties  before  I  leave, 
had  made  me  forget  ray  ciiildreu's  supper,  and  they  do  not  like  to  take 
it  from  any  one  but  me."  I  uttered  some  indifferent  compliment;  but 
my  w^hole  soul  was  absorbed  by  her  air,  her  voice,  her  manner,  and  I 
had  scarcely  recovered  myself  when  she  ran  into  her  room  to  fetch  her 
gloves  and  fan. 

Our  readers  must  know  that  this  bread-and-butter  scene 
has  been  very  much  admired.  It  has  been  made  the  subject 
of  paintings — of  poems  also,  probably  ;  of  one  poem,  at  least, 
it  is  certain.  As  this  poem  happens  to  be  in  English,  and  to 
be  from  the  pen  of  one  well  qualified  to  do  his  subject  jus- 
tice, we  shall  presently  show  it.  Meantime,  take  the  con- 
trasted passage.  Young  Werther  has  driven  fast  his  ac- 
quaintance with  Charlotte.  He  accompanies  her  to  a  ball. 
Here  a  thunder-storm  interrupts  the  dancing.  Werther  tells 
how  he  and  Charlotte  occupied  themselves  together,  as  the 
violence  of  the  storm  was  subsiding : 

We  went  to  the  window.      It  was  still  thundering  at  a  distance;  a 

soft  rain  was  pouring  down  over  the  country  and  filled  the  air  around 


Goethe.  175 

us  with  delicious  odors.  Charlotte  leaned  forward  on  her  arm;  her 
eyes  wandered  over  the  scene ;  she  raised  ihetu  to  the  sky,  and  then  turned 
them  upon  me;  they  were  moistened  with  tears;  she  placed  her  hand 
upon  mine  and  said,  '•  Klopstockl "  At  once  I  remembered  tlie  mag- 
nificent ode  whicli  was  in  her  thoughts;  I  felt  oppressed  with  the  weight 
of  my  sensations  and  sank  under  them.  It  was  more  than  I  could 
bear.  I  bent  over  her  hand,  kissed  it  in  a  stream  of  delicious  tears, 
and  again  looked  up  to  her  eyes.  Divine  Klopstockl  why  didst  thou 
not  see  thy  apotheosis  in  those  eyes?  And  thy  name,  so  often  profaned, 
would  that  I  never  heard  it  repeated  1 

Now  for  our  poem  on  the  bread-and-butter  scene  of  Wer- 
ther's  meeting  with  Charlotte.     It  is  by  Thackeray  : 

Wcrtlier  had  a  love  for  Charlotte 

Such  as  words  could  never  utter; 
Would  you  know  how  first  he  met  her? 

She  was  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

Charlotte  was  another's  lady, 

And  a  moral  man  was  Werther ; 
And  for  all  the  wealth  of  Indies 

■\Yonld  do  nothing  for  to  hurt  her. 

So  he  sighed  and  pined  and  ogled, 
And  his  passion  boiled  and  babbled. 

Till  he  blew  bis  silly  brains  out. 
And  no  more  by  it  was  troubled. 

Charlotte  having  seen  his  body 

Borne  before  her  on  a  shutter, 
Like  a  well-conducted  person 

"Went  on  cutting  bread  and  butter. 

We  may  sober  ourselves,  in  dismissing  Werther,  by  re- 
flecting that  this  precious  stuff — which  nobody  with  a  sense 
of  humor  in  him  could  ever,  by  any  possibility,  have  written, 
except  as  an  open  burlesque — was  hailed  on  its  appearance, 
as  a  work  of  deep  philosophy,  by  men  like  Lavater  and 
Jacobi,  and  that  Napoleon  read  it,  as  he  read  Ossian,  with 
untutored  barbarian  delight.  It  should  be  added  that,  in 
one  important  respect,  the  Wurther  was  a  revelation  as  well 
as  a  sensation  in  German  literature — we  mean  in  the  ease, 
the  grace,  and  the  harmony,  of  its  style.     It  was  thus,  as  in 


176  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

spirit,  so  also  in  form,  a  German  echo  of  the  French  senti- 
mentalisin  of  Rousseau.  It  throws,  by  the  way,  a  curious 
light  on  the  literary  German's  obligingness  in  indiscreet  con- 
fidences to  his  reader,  to  Hnd  a  biographer  of  Goethe  making 
note  of  the  fact  that  this  poet-lover  of  another  man's  wife 
wanted  "to  get  Lotte's  old  comb  in  exchange  for  a  new 
one  "  !  Goethe's  choice  of  keepsake  was  at  least  poetically 
fit  to  the  whole  pretty  mess  of  Wtrther — hero,  authoi',  occa- 
sion, and  all. 

Goetz  and  Werther  made  their  author's  fame  not  only,  but 
his  fate.  They  procured  from  the  young  Duke  of  Weimar 
an  invitation  for  Goethe  to  make  him  a  visit.  The  visit 
made,  Goethe  was  settled  for  life  as  a  kind  of  prime  minis- 
ter to  the  duke,  charged  with  the  duty  of  providing  pleasure 
for  the  court.  That  the  pleasure  actually  provided  was  in 
considerable  proportion  of  a  quasi-intellectual  sort,  may  fair- 
ly be  credited,  a  share  to  the  minister,  a  share  to  the  sove- 
reign, a  share  to  the  previous  inflneii;i;e  of  Wieland  as  tutor 
to  the  prince,  and  a  share  to  the  spirit  of  the  time.  It  had 
now  become  a  fashion  for  German  pi'inces  to  patronize  liter- 
ature. 

But  Goethe,  though  seven  or  eight  years  older  than  his 
prince,  was  still  a  young  fellow  of  only  twenty-five.  So 
youthful  a  minister  of  pleasure,  to  so  much  more  youthful  a 
prince,  by  no  means  committed  the  mistake  of  trying  to 
strain  up  the  enjoyments  of  the  Weimar  court  to  an  impossi- 
ble pitch  of  sobriety.  On  the  contrary,  the  riot  the  two 
made  together,  the  minister  and  the  prince,  was  something 
portentous.  If  unlimited  hilarity,  with  the  resources  of  a 
principality  to  support  it,  could  make  truly  happy,  there 
would  seem  to  be  no  reason  why  Goethe  should  not  have 
had,  during  these  boisterous  years,  much  more  than  "four 
weeks  of  genuine  pleasure." 

It  was  in  truth  but  a  melancholy  fate,  the  fortune  so  gen- 
erally praised  as  unique  for  felicity,  that  fell  on  Goethe  in 
his  becoming  Petronius  Arbiter  to  the  boyish  sovereign  of 
a    petty  dukedom   like   Saxe- Weimar.      That,  in    spite   of 


Goethe.  177 

circumstances  so  hostile,  Goethe  shoidd  have  accomplished 
so  much,  is  one  of  the  chief  things  in  his  praise.  Richter 
said  admiringly  that  only  Goethe  could  have  been  in  such  hot 
sunshine  of  worldly  prosperity  without  having  his  wings 
hopelessly  singed.  Let  us  not  congratulate,  but  commiserate, 
Goethe,  that,  with  endowments  pointing  him  out  as  mani- 
festly meant  for  mankind,  he  should,  by  his  destiny,  have 
been  almost  inevitably  turned  inwai'd  upon  himself,  with  this 
for  his  chief  ambition :  to  present  to  the  world  the  ideal  ex- 
ample— and  such  was  Goethe's  confessed  ambition  and  aim — 
of  what  "self-culture"  could  do  for  its  subject!  Opening 
himself  on  the  topic  of  this  his  supreme  purpose  in  life,  he 
thus  writes  to  Lavater: 

I  wisli  to  act  like  the  greatest  men.  I  wish  in  nothing  to  act  Uke  the 
merely  greater.  This  desire — to  make  the  Pyramid  of  my  Being  .  .  . 
soar  as  higli  as  can  be  in  air — outweighs  all  else  and  permits  hardly  a 
momentary  forgetting.  I  may  not  linger,  I  am  already  far  in  years 
[Goethe  was  now  thirty-one]  and  perchance  Destiny  will  come  and 
break  me  off  in  the  middle  of  my  building,  and  Babel  Tower  will  stand 
unfinished,  blunt.  At  least  it  sliall  be  said,  It  was  a  bold  design!  .  .  . 
Very  powerful  is  the  talisman  of  a  beautiful  love,  such  as  the  Stein 
[Madame  Charlotte  von  Stein,  wife  of  a  living  husband]  seasons  life 
with  for  me.  She  has  by  degrees  succeeded  to  my  motiier,  my  sister,  and 
my  former  loves,  and  a  bond  has  formed  between  us  as  strong  as  are  the 
bonds  of  Nature. 

Diintzer,  in  his  admiring  life  of  Goethe,  quotes  the  fore- 
going, and  adds,  reverently:  "Thus  was  he  clear  and  firm 
in  the  consciousness  of  his  striving,  and  [this  in  the  teeth  of 
Goethe's  just-confessed  dependence  on  '  the  Stein  ']  perfectly 
sufficient  to  him-elf "  !  The  same  indiscreet  biographer 
notes  it  that  Goethe  at  eighty  years  of  age  recalled  with 
l)leasure  how  a  saucy  young  maid  of  honor  after  whom, 
thirty  years  before,  the  great  man  openly  went  daft,  used 
archly  to  call  him  "Silly  Geheimrath."  "Silly"  Privy 
Councillor,  indeed,  Goethe,  in  undress,  was  ;  and  to  a  fund 
in  him,  a  plenteous  fund,  of  downright  soft  silliness,  much 
may  mercifully  be  allowed  that  would  have  to  be  charged 
seriously  against  him  had  he  been  a  man  of  truer  manlino^", 
8* 


178  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

and  still  been  guilty,  could  that  be  supposed  possible,  of  the 
same  behavior.  Diintzer  blabs  again,  telling  of  Goethe  and 
Schiller's  having  a  drinking  bout  together  in  company  with 
a  certain  actress,  to  whom  Goethe  afterward  inscribed  a 
"  poem,"  reminiscent  of  the  occasion,  gracefully  recalling  to 
that  lady  how  she',  though  drinking,  he  admitted,  less  than 
"  Schiller  and  he  and  all,"  yet  "  champagne-fuddled  on  his 
neck  did  fall " — namely,  on  the  neck  of  this  truly  "  silly  Ge- 
heimrath."  By  the  way,  not  to  treat  with  any  injustice  a 
misguided,  indeed,  but  apparently  a  pure  and  noble,  woman, 
it  behooves  us  to  say  that  Madame  von  Stein  seemed  to  have 
conceived  the  disinterested  ami  romantic  idea  that  she  might 
save  Goethe  from  himself  by  giving  him  her  friendship. 
Repeatedly  she  was  obliged  to  deny  herself  to  him,  in  order 
to  chastise  and  repress  his  improprieties  toward  her,  and  still 
she  kept  him  her  friend — until  he,  by  forming  his  "  relation  " 
with  Christiane  Vulpius,  broke  some  promise  of  his  to  her, 
probably  that  of  behaving  himself  in  a  manner  worthy  of  his 
genius. 

Amid  the  roystering  pleasures  that  he  created  to  share 
with  his  young  master,  Karl  August,  Goethe  teemed  with 
literary  plans  and  undertakings.  But  as  he  could  not  get  on 
well  with  piling  up  the  "  Pyramid  of  his  Being,"  so  neither 
could  he  coax  any  thing  entirely  satisfactory  out  of  his 
genius — except  on  condition  that  he  had  a  woman  to  love. 
"  In  what,"  he,  in  his  autobiography,  appealingly  asks — the 
man  of  sixty-four  asks  : 

In  what  can  young  people  take  the  highest  interest,  how  are  they  to 
excite  interest  among  those  of  their  own  age,  if  they  are  not  animated  by 
love,  and  if  affairs  of  the  heart,  ofivhatever  kind  they  may  be,  are  not  Hving 
within  them? 

He  needed  to  groic  his  subjects  for  poetry,  and  he  found 
nothing  that  made  these  thrive  and  blossom  so  freely  as  to 
feed  them  with  the  fresh  first  affection  of  a  young  maiden 
heart.  He  has  himself  testified  that  every  thing  he  wrote 
was  from  actual  experience  of  his  own.  His  love-songs  are 
no  exception  to  the  rule.     These,  generally  speaking  at  least, 


Goethe.  1'79 

have  their  costly  fragrance  from  the  expressed  and  subtil- 
ized life-juice  of  a  beating  human  heart.  The  egotism  of 
the  poet,  too  absolute  to  feel  constraint  from  any  claims  of 
delicacy,  has  prompted  him  to  give  to  the  public,  in  one  way 
or  another,  the  natural  history  of  many  of  his  amatory 
poems.  This  one  was  inspired  by  his  experience  with 
Annette,  this  one  by  his  experience  with  Kitty,  this  one  by 
his  experience  with  Frederica,  this  one  by  his  experience 
with  Lotte,  this  one  by  his  experience  with  Lili,  and  so  on 
and  on. 

The  songs  of  Goethe  are  very  famous,  and  the  reader  will 
wish  to  see  specimens  of  them.  We  feel  obliged,  however, 
to  give  him  due  notice  that,  in  their  English  form,  they  will 
prove  somewhat  disappointing.  Probably,  even  in  their 
German  form,  the  average  student,  though  adequately  con- 
versant with  the  language,  would  still  miss  the  spell  found 
in  them  by  some.  You  must  be  steeped  in  knowledge  and 
in  admiration  of  Goethe  in  order  to  enjoy  Goethe's  songs, 
especially  his  love-songs,  up  to  the  measure  of  their  fame. 
It  is  not  enougli  that  you  admire  Goethe,  the  poet  and  the 
man.  You  must  knoio  him,  and  admire  him,  in  both  these 
characters.  The  songs,  and  again  we  have  to  say,  especially 
the  love-songs,  are  of  himself,  nay,  are  himself.  Self-felicita- 
tion, self-pity,  are  alternately  the  key  in  which  most  of  them 
are  written. 

Take,  for  one  of  the  more  intelligible  of  Goethe's  love- 
ditties,  the  following,  much  admired,  entitled  Neio  Love,  New 
Life.  The  author  is  about  leaving  *'  Lili "  (the  name  is 
a  poetical  pseudonym  for  a  real  personage),  not  without 
backward-looking  regret  (for  his  own  sake),  to  seek  "fresh 
w^oods  and  pastures  new "  in  which  to  browse  his  heart 
and  his  genius.  The  old  man  of  sixty  and  upward,  in  his 
autobiography,  tells  us  all  about  it,  kindly  adding  these 
words  : 

To  make  this  nierel)'  imaginary  contemplation  of  a  living  experience 
come  nearer  to  a  youthful  sympatliy,  I  may  insert  some  songs,  well 
known,  indeed,  l)iit  perhaps  more  impressive  in  tliis  connection. 


180  Classic  German  QoKVse  hi  English. 

The  autobiograplier  then  inserts  the  following  song : 

Heart,  my  heart,  0,  wliy  this  sadness  ? 

What  doth  weigh  on  tliee  so  sore  ? 
Changed  so  from  thy  wonted  gladness, 

That  I  scarcely  know  thee  more. 
Gone  is  all  which  thou  held  dearest, 
Gone  the  care  which  thou  kept  nearest, 

Gone  thy  toils  and  after-bliss. 

Ah!  how  couldst  tliou  come  to  this! 

Binds  thee  here  her  bloom  so  youthful — 

That  divine  and  lovely  form — 
Tiiat  sweet  look,  so  good  and  truthful, 

With  its  all-subduing  charm? 
If  I  swear  no  more  to  see  her. 
If  I  man  myself  and  flee  her. 

In  a  moment  more,  alack! 

Straight  to  her  I  hie  me  back. 

She  with  magic  net  enfolds  ine. 

That  defies  my  utmost  skill ; 
Lovely,  wanton  maid — she  holds  me, 

Holds  me  fast  against  my  will. 
In  lier  magic  ring  who  finds  liira. 
After  all  her  w'ays  must  mind  him. 

All !  how  great  the  change  to  me ! 

Love !   when  wilt  thou  sec  me  free ! 

One  more  of  the  Lili  poeras,  whereof  the  poet  himself  shall 
tell  the  occasion  and  the  motive.     He  says: 

A  little  golden  heart  wliich  I  had  received  from  her  in  those  foiry  hours 
still  hung  by  the  same  little  cliain  to  wliich  she  had  fastened  it,  love- 
warmed,  about  my  neck.     I  seized  hold  of  it,  and  l%issed  it. 

Here  are  the  lines : 

Remembrancer  of  joys  long  passed  away, 

Relic,  from  wliich  as  yet  I  cannot  part, 
0,  hast  thou  power  to  lengthen  love's  sliort  day? 

Stronger  thy  chain  than  that  which  bound  the  heart? 

Lili,  I  fly  I — yet  still  thy  fetters  press  mo 

In  distant  valley,  or  far  lonely  wood ; 
Still,  with  a  struggling  sigli  of  pain,  confess  thee 

The  mistress  of  my  soul  in  ever}'  mood. 


Goethe.  181 

The  bird  muy  burst  tlie  silken  chain  which  bound  him, 
Flying  to  tlie  green  liome  whicli  tits  him  best ; 

But,  all !  he  bears  the  prisoner's  badge  around  liim, 
Still  by  tiie  piece  about  his  neck  distressed. 

He  ne'er  can.  breathe  his  free,  wild  notes  again ; 

They're  stilled  by  the  pressure  of  his  chain. 

Goethe's  father  had  given  him  the  privilege  of  visiting 
Italy,  and  his  fellow-tourists  urged  him  to  the  journey  ;  but 
the  luxury  of  love  and  "renunciation"  was  too  sweet  not  to 
be  tasted  all  over  again  afresh,  and  he  let  Lili  draw  him  back 
to  her  side. 

All  except  the  last  of  the  foi-egoing  poetical  translations 
are  from  the  hand  of  Mr.  John  S.  D wight;  the  last  is  by  the 
celebrated  Margaret  F'uller.  Margaret  Fuller,  in  her  time, 
edited  the  Dial,  the  famous  organ  of  New  England  "Tran- 
scendentalism." She  evidently  it  is  who,  in  this  periodical, 
uses,  concerning  Goethe,  the  following  language  : 

"  That  Goethe  as  a  man  was  seltish  to  a  very  high  degree, 
a  debauchee,  and  well-bred  epicurean,  who  had  little  sympathy 
with  what  was  highest  in  man  so  long  as  he  could  crown 
himself  with  rose-buds,  we  are  willing  to  admit.  But  let 
him  have  justice  none  the  less." 

To  both  the  admission  and  the  exhortation,  we  heartily 
agree.  Here  is  a  song  of  Goethe's,  certainly  sweet  in  itself, 
and  not  less  sweet  enjoj'^ed  without  flavor  of  any  specific 
personal  association.    Mr.  D wight  translates: 

I  think  of  thee,  when  the  briglit  sunlight  shimmers 

Across  the  sea  ; 
■\yhen  the  clear  fountain  in  the  moonbeam  glimmers, 

I  tliink  of  tliee. 

I  see  thee,  if  far  up  the  pathway  yonder 

The  dust  be  stirred: 
If  faint  steps  o'er  the  little  bridge  to  wander 

At  night  be  heard. 

I  hear  thee,  when  the  tossing  waves'  low  rumbling 

Creeps  up  the  hill  ; 
I  go  to  the  lone  wood  and  listen,  trembling. 

When  all  is  still. 


182  Classic  Gertnan  Course  in  English. 

I  am  with  thee,  wherever  thou  art  roaming, 

And  thou  art  near  ! 
The  sun  goes  down,  aud  soon  the  stars  are  coming. 

Would  thou  wert  here ! 

Goethe's  short,  sweet  sentiments  in  verse  are  so  fine,  so 
famous,  and  withal  so  rej^resentative  of  his  character,  his 
genius,  and  his  art,  that  we  must  give  a  few  more  of  them. 
The  two  following  we  have  been  drawn  to  try  translating 
ourselves.  The  first  is  entitled  "  Found."  Some  readers 
may  like  to  associate  it  with  Goethe's  finding  of  the  woman 
that  was  eventually  to  be  his  wife ;  but  it  will  then  not  bear 
close  study  without  revealing  traits  rather  repellent  than 
attractive.  The  best  way  to  take  it,  is  the  child's  way,  that 
is,  not  to  find  allegory  in  it;  though,  on  the  other  side,  that 
makes  the  poem  too  trifling.  We  have  sought  to  give  ex- 
actly the  metre,  the  rhyme,  and  the  rhythm  of  the  original ;  the 
grace  of  utter  simplicity  in  it,  reconciled  with  ideal  perfection 
in  form — that,  it  would  need  the  hand  of  a  Goethe,  working 
freely  in  first  creation,  to  produce  for  the  English  reader: 

Alone  I  wandered 

Amid  the  wood. 
To  look  for  nothing, 

In  listless  mood. 

I  saw  in  shadow 

A  floweret  there, 
Like  star  it  glittered. 

Like  eye  was  fair. 

I  thought  to  pluck  it, 

When  soft  it  spoke, 
"So,  then,  to  wither 

Must  I  be  broke  ?  " 

With  all  its  rootlets, 

I  delved  it  out, 
To  garden  bore  it 

Fair  house  about. 

There  new  I  set  it, 

In  slaeltered  place ; 
Now  still  it  bourgeons 

Li  blooming  grace. 


Goethe.  183 

The  next  piece  is  of  course  allegory  again ;  and  allegory — 
as  is  to  be  looked  for  in  Goethe — not  without  its  pain  sug- 
gested to  the  thoughtful  mind.  But  the  dainty  touch  in  it 
of  the  artist  in  verse,  how  inimitable  it  is  !  We  try  to  rep- 
resent in  translation  all  the  metrical  traits  of  the  original, — 
it  bears  the  title,  "  Heath-rose,"  or  "  Brier-rose  "  : 

Saw  a  youth  a  brier-roso  blow, 

Brier-rose  on  the  heather, 
Yoimg  and  moruhig-lovely  so. 
Straight  he  ran  to  see  tlie  show, 

Gladsome  altogether. 
Brier-rose,  brier-rose,  brier-rose  red, 

Brier-rose  on  the  heather. 

Quotii  the  youtli :  "  I  sever  thee, 

Brier-rose  on  the  heather." 
Quoth  the  rose:   "  Forever  thee 
•  Sting  I  to  remember  me, 

And  to  know  thy  tether." 
Brier-rose,  brier-rose,  brier-rose  red, 

Brier-rose  on  the  heather. 

And  tlie  willful  youth  he  brake 

Brier-rose  on  the  heather, 
Brier-rose  fought  and  wound  did  make. 
Her  bestead  not  cry  of  ache. 

And  he  knew  no  tether. 
Brier-rose,  brier-rose,  brier-rose  red, 

Brier-rose  on  tlie  heather. 

Yet  two  delicious  morsels  of  sentiment  in  song  from 
Goethe,  and  we  go  to  other,  more  weighty,  if  not  more  ad- 
mirable, work  of  his  pen.  The  two  pieces  proposed  are 
entitled,  "Wanderer's  Night-songs."  They  are  no  doubt 
autobiographical ;  and,  besides  that,  they  are  symbolical. 
But  "  liberal  applications  lie  in  art,  as  nature,"  and  these  two 
exquisite  songs  we  will  leave  to  the  untrammeled  imagination 
of  the  reader: 

Thou  that  from  tlie  heavens  art 

Every  pain  and  sorrow  stillest, 
And  the  doubly  wretched  heart 

Doubly  with  refreshment  lillest, — 


184  Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 

I  am  weary  with  contending  I 

Why  this  rapture  and  unrest? 
Peace  descending, 

Come,  ah,  come  into  my  breast  I 

The  foregoing  translation  lacks  little  of  being  as  sweet  as 
its  original,  and  it  clings  close  to  the  letter  of  that.  But  in 
the  piece  following,  the  translator — Longfellow,  as  before — 
had  a  more  difficult  task ;  and  he  has  used  greater  freedom, 
without  attaining  equal  felicity : 

O'er  all  the  hill-tops 

Is  quiet  now, 
In  all  the  tree-tops 

Hearest  thou 
Hardly  a  breatli ; 

The  birds  are  iisleep  in  the  trees ; 
Wait,  soon  like  these 

Thou  too  shalt  rest. 

Gems,  exquisitely  wrought,  of  literary  workmanship,  these 
pieces,  in  the  original,  are  ;  and,  moreover,  as  absolutely  sim- 
ple and  natural  as  if  they  were  indeed  nature,  not  art.  Heine 
said,  "  Nature  wanted  to  see  how  she  herself  looked,  and  so 
she  made  Goethe."  Nature  it  was,  then,  let  us  say,  and  not 
art,  that  wrote  these  songs. 

Little  remains  that  need  be  told  of  the  outward  fortune  of 
Goethe.  It  was  a  prolonged  and  repeated  experience  with 
him  of  "  new  love,  new  life."  At  sixty-three,  writing  in  his 
autobiography,  he  could  still  say  appreciatively  : 

"  It  is  a  very  pleasant  sensation  when  a  new  passion  [of  love]  begins 
to  stir  in  us,  before  the  old  one  is  quite  extinct." 

At  Weimar,  from  his  twenty-fifth  year,  he  lived  and 
labored  until,  in  his  eighty-third  year,  he  died.  During  the 
long  placid  interval  he  made  a  memorable  journey  to  Italy, 
spending  about  two  years  there,  or  on  the  way  thither  and 
thence.  This  journey  and  sojourn  he  celebrated  in  a  book 
of  travels,  one  of  his  highly  prized  productions.  Italy  had 
a  profound  influence  on  Goethe's  subsequent  intellectual  life, 
furnishing  one  of  the  chief  foods  to  his  ever-hungering  self- 


Goethe.  185 

culture.  It  gave  him  the  subject  and  the  inspiration  for  his 
dramatic  poem,  Torquato  Tasso.  His  so-styled  classic  poem 
of  Iphigenia  in  Tauris  was  also  written  in  Italy.  (A  prose 
form  of  this   poem   the   author    had   previously  prepared.) 

The  Iphigenia,  whatever  its  faults  and  short-comings,  is, 
in  the  opinion  of  the  present  writer,  on  the  whole  the  dearest 
and  noblest  monument  of  the  poet's  genius.  As  Schiller 
well  pointed  out,  it  is  not  really  classic  in  motive ;  but  it  is 
exquisitely  classic  in  form.  The  modern  spirit — everywhere, 
of  course,  an  importunate  atmosphere  about  the  poet — pressed 
its  Avay  resistlessly  in  and  profoundly  affected  the  entire  con- 
ception of  the  poem.  Goethe  was  remarkably  successfully  a 
pagan — "  the  old  pagan "  Avas  one  of  the  hard  names  his 
contemporary  enemies  called  him  ;  but  it  was  not  in  the 
nature  of  things  that  a  man  of  the  eighteenth  Christian  cent- 
ury could  be  wholly  a  pagan  of  the  third  or  fourth  century 
before  Christ.  If,  therefore,  the  poem  be  strictly  considered 
as  an  attempted  reproduction  of  the  ancient  classic  age  of 
Greece,  the  character  justly  attributed  to  it  by  Schiller  is 
undoubtedly  an  artistic  imperfection  ;  the  sentiment  of  the 
Iphigenia  is  not  ancient  and  pagan,  but  modern  and,  in  a 
sense.  Christian.  What,  however,  is,  relatively,  a  fault,  is, 
absolutely,  a  virtue,  in  the  poem.  We  repeat  that  the 
IpJngenia,  both  negatively,  that  is,  by  the  absence  from  it 
of  things  exceptionable,  and  positively,  that  is,  by  the 
presence  in  it  of  a  sentiment  purifying  and  ennobling,  seems 
to  us  to  be  the  work  of  its  author  worthiest  to  make  his 
name  a  name  to  be  praised. 

To  render  apprehensible  and  enjoyable,  to  the  reader  not 
versed  in  Greek  history  (or  Greek  tradition)  and  Greek  litera- 
ture, the  peculiar  beauty  and  merit  of  this  modern  antique 
of  Goethe's,  is  well-nigh  out  of  the  question.  The  conception 
of  the  poem  presupposes  two  things ;  namely,  first,  a  dis- 
tinctively ancient  and  pagan  myth,  one  quite  outside  the  range 
of  modern  and  Christian  ideas,  and,  second,  a  well-known 
previous  poetic  treatment  of  that  myth,  proceeding  from  the 
hand  of  a  great   Greek  master  in   tragedy,  Euripides.     The 


186  Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 

myth  is,  that  Iphigenia,  youthful  daughter  to  Agamemnon, 
leader-in-chief  of  the  Greeks  mustered  to  the  siege  of  Troy, 
was  offered  at  Aulis  a  sacrifice  to  Diana,  in  order,  by  appeas- 
ing that  virgin  goddess,  to  secure  a  long-delaying  favorable 
wind  for  the  Grecian  fleet.  At  the  instant  of  the  descent  of 
the  sacriticial  knife,  the  maiden  victim  was  caught  away  by 
the  relenting  goddess  and  borne  far  thence  to  the  savage 
region  of  Tauris,  there  to  become  priestess  in  her  temple. 
(A  beautiful  hind,  bleeding  from  the  blow  that  had  missed 
Iphigenia,  was  substituted  as  victim  at  the  altar  in  Aulis.) 
So  much  for  the   myth  concerning  Iphigenia. 

The  Euripidean  tragedy  of  IpJdgenia  in  Tauris  makes  it 
the  bloody  custom  of  the  realm  so  named,  to  sacrifice  all 
strangers  arriving  in  it  as  victims  to  Diana.  There  Orestes, 
brother  to  Iphigenia,  arrives,  in  coraj^any  with  his  bosom  friend 
Pylades.  Orestes  and  Iphigenia  meet  without  recognizing 
each  other.  She,  however,  learning  that  he  is  from  Argos, 
undertakes  to  save  his  life,  on  condition  that  he  will  bear  for 
her  a  letter  to  her  native  city,  Mycene — whither  she  is  per- 
petually homesick  to  return.  Orestes  will  not  consent  to  be 
separated  from  his  friend  Pylades ;  and  Pylades  makes  a  fine 
start  to  be  equally  magnanimous.  Orestes,  however,  prevails 
upon  him  to  yield  the  point  of  honor,  when,  behold — Iphigenia 
producing  the  letter  for  him  to  carry — the  letter  is  ad- 
dressed, to  whom  but  to  Orestes?  This,  of  course,  brings 
about  a  mutual  recognition,  and  the  three  join  in  plotting  a 
common  escape  for  all. 

So  far,  the  myth  and  the  treatment  of  the  myth  are  sub- 
stantially the  same  for  both  Euripides  and  Goethe.  At  this 
point  begins  the  divergence.  For,  whereas  Euripides  makes 
the  plot  for  escaj^e,  with  the  success  of  the  plot,  turn  on  a 
deej)  deception  practiced  by  the  three  Greeks — in  excellent 
accord  with  the  Greek  national  repute  for  duplicity — Goethe 
makes  his  plot  with  its  success  turn  on  the  ultimate  beau- 
tiful truthfulness  of  Iphigenia,  held  to  by  her  against 
the  strongest  temptation  to  falsehood.  Iphigenia,  under 
Goethe's  hand,  is  transfigured  from  a  heathen  to  a  Christian 


Goethe.  ISY 

woman.  Slie  becomes  a  figure  resplciulently  fair.  The  moral 
sense  is  satisfied  with  her  behavior ;  more  than  satisfied — 
braced,  lifted,  purified.  We  give  a  brief  passage  from  the 
conclusion  of  the  poem — a  conclusion  which  has  been  led  up 
to  by  the  poet  in  approaches  admirable  for  their  simplicity  of 
art.  It  ought  to  be  exj^lained  additionally  that  Thoas,  the 
monarch  of  Tauris,  is  deeply  in  love  with  Iphigenia.  He, 
too,  barbarian  as  he  is,  feels  the  effect  of  such  clear  virtue 
beheld.  Buoyed  by  noble  admiration  of  the  noble  in  Iphi- 
genia, he  rises  to  the  height  of  renunciation,  and  lets  his 
beloved  go,  with  blessing,  from  liis  hands,  she  taking  both 
her  brother  and  his  friend  back  with  her  to  Argos.  Let 
readers  understand  that  a  scheme  of  escape  had  at  first  been 
agreed  upon,  with  Iphigenia's  consent,  involving  deception. 
That  first  scheme  was  that  the  three  Greeks  should  steal  and 
carry  off  from  Tauris  the  precious  image  of  Diana.  Iphi- 
genia, recovering  her  virtue  of  truth,  had  thought  better  of 
this  plan.  She  voluntarily  divulged  all  to  the  king.  An 
encounter  occurs,  angry  at  first,  between  Orestes  and  Tlioas — 
Iphigenia  mediatrix.  We  give  the  closing  scene  of  the 
poem,  presenting  this  encounter  together  with  its  issue: 

Iphigenia.  Relieve  my  cares  ere  ye  begin  to  speak. 
I  fear  contention,  if  thou  will  not  hear 
The  voice  of  equity,  O  king — if  thou 
Wilt  not,  my  brother,  curb  ihy  headstrong  j'oulh! 
Thoas.  I,  as  becomes  the  elder,  check  my  rage. 

Now  answer  me;  how  dost  thou  prove  thyself 
The  priestess'  brother,  Agamemnon's  son  ? 
(h'estes.  Behold  the  sword  with  which  the  hero  slew 
The  valiant  Trojans.     From  his  murderer 
I  took  the  weapon,  and  implored  the  gods 
To  grant  me  Agamemnon's  mighty  arm, 
Success,  and  valor,  with  a  death  more  noble. 
Select  one  of  the  leaders  of  tiiy  host, 
And  place  tlic  best  as  my  opponent  here. 
Where'er  on  earth  the  sons  of  heroes  dwell, 
This  boon  is  to  the  stranger  ne'er  refused. 
Thoas.  This  privilege  hath  ancient  custom  here 
To  strangers  ne'er  accorded. 


188 


Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


Orestes.  Tlieu  from  us 

Commence  the  novel  custom!    A  whole  race 
In  imitation  soon  will  consecrate 
Its  monarch's  noble  action  into  law. 
Nor  let  me  only  for  our  libertj^ — 
Let  me,  a  stranger,  for  all  strangers  fight. 
If  I  should  fall,  my  doom  be  also  theirs ; 
But,  if  kind  fortune  crown  me  witii  success, 
Let  none  e'er  tread  this  shore,  and  fail  to  meet 
Tiie  beaming  eye  of  sympathy  and  love, 
Or  unconsoled  depart! 
Thoas.  Thou  dost  not  seem 

Unworthy  of  thy  boasted  ancestry. 
Great  is  the  number  of  the  valiant  men 
Who  wait  upon  me;  but  I  will  myself, 
Ahliough  advanced  in  years,  oppose  the  foe, 
And  am  prepared  to  try  the  chance  of  arms. 
IpUlgenia.  No,  no !  such  bloodj'  proofs  are  not  required. 
Unhand  thj'  weapon,  king!  m}'  lot  consider; 
Rash  combat  oft  immortalizes  man  ; 
If  he  should  fall,  he  is  renowned  in  song: 
But  after  ages  reckon  not  the  tears 
Which  ceaseless  the  forsaken  woman  slieds; 
And  poets  tell  not  of  the  thousand  nights 
Consumed  in  weeping,  and  the  dreary  da3's, 
Wherein  her  anguished  soul,  a  prey  to  grief, 
Doth  vainly  yearn  to  call  her  loved  one  back. 

See  here,  the  mark  on  his  right  hand  impressed 
As  of  three  stars,  which  on  his  natal  day 
Were  by  the  priest  declared  to  indicate 
Some  dreadful  deed  therewith  to  be  performed. 


Thoas. 


Shall  I  adduce  the  hkeness  to  his  sire. 
Or  the  deep  rapture  of  my  inmost  heart, 
In  further  token  of  assurance,  king? 

Their  purpose,  as  thou  didst  thyself  confess, 
Was  to  deprive  me  of  Diana's  image. 
And  think  ye  I  will  look  contented  on  ? 
The  Greeks  are  wont  to  cast  a  longing  eye 
Upon  the  treasures  of  barbarians — 


Orestes.  The  image  shall  not  be  a  cause  of  strife  1 

We  now  perceive  the  error  which  the  god- 


Goethe. 


189 


Our  Journey  liere  commamiiiig — like  a  veil, 

Threw  o'er  our  minds.     His  counsel  I  implored, 

To  free  me  from  the  Furies'  grisly  baud. 

He  answered,  "Back  to  Greece  the  sister  bring, 

Who  in  the  sanctuarj'  on  Tauris'  shore 

Unwillingly  abides  ;  so  ends  the  curse  !" 

To  Pha>bns'  sister  we  applied  the  words, 

And  he  referred  to  thee.  !  .  . 

Like  to  a  sacred  image,  unto  which 

An  oracle  immutably  hath  bound 

A  city's  welfare,  liiee  she  bore  away, 

Protectress  of  our  house,  and  guarded  here 

Within  this  holy  stillness,  to  become 

A  blessing  to  thy  brother  and  th}^  race. 


0  king,  incline  thine  heart  to  tlioughts  of  peace ! 

Requite  the  blessing  which  her  preseiico  lirouglit  thee. 

And  lot  rae  now  my  nearer  riglit  enjoy ! 

Cunning  and  force,  the  proudest  boast  of  man. 

Fade  in  the  lustre  of  her  perfect  trutii ; 

Nor  unrequited  will  a  noble  mind 

Leave  confidence  so  child-like  and  so  pnre. 

Jphigenia.  Think  on  thy  promise ;  let  thy  lieart  be  moved 
Bj  what  a  true,  an  honest  tongue  hath  spoken  ! 
Look  on  us,  king !  an  opportunity 
For  such  a  noble  deed  not  oft  occurs. 
Refuse  thou  canst  not — give  thy  quick  consent. 
Thoas.  Then,  go ! 

Iphigenia.  Not  so,  my  king!    I  cannot  part 

Without  thy  blessing,  or  in  anger  from  tliee: 
Banish  us  not !  the  sacred  right  of  guests 
Still  let  us  claim  ;  so  not  eternally 
Shall  we  be  severed.     Honored  and  beloved. 
As  mine  own  father  was,  art  thou  by  me; 
And  this  impression  in  my  soul  al)ides. 
Let  but  the  least  among  thy  people  bring 
Back  to  mine  ear  the  tones  I  heard  from  thee. 
Or  should  I  on  the  humblest  see  thy  garb, 

1  will  with  joy  receive  him  as  a  god, 
Prepare  his  couch  myself,  beside  our  hcartii 
Invite  him  to  a  seat,  and  only  ask 
Touching  tiiy  fate  and  thee.     Oh,  may  tlie  gods 
To  tlice  the  merited  reward  impart 


190  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Of  all  thy  kindness  and  benignity! 
Farewell !     Oh,  turn  tliou  not  away,  but  give 
One  kindly  word  of  parting  in  return  1 
So  sliall  tlie  wind  more  gently  swell  our  sails, 
And  from  our  eyes  with  softened  anguisli  flow 
The  tears  of  separation.    Fare  thee  well ! 
And  graciously  extend  to  me  thy  hand, 
In  pledge  of  ancient  friendship. 
Thoas  (extending  his  hand).  Fare  ye  well  1 

Miss  Anna  Swanwick,  an  English  lady,  has  performed  the 
part  of  translator  for  this  poem  of  Goethe's — as  also  for  his 
Tasso,  another  unexceptionable  work  of  the  poet — with  singu- 
lar taste  and  skill.     We  have  made  use  of  her  version. 

It  seems  a  pity  not  to  have  presented  more  in  full  the  poem 
that,  for  us,  as  we  have  confessed,  is,  on  the  whole,  its  au- 
thor's greatest,  or,  if  not  his  greatest,  his  highest,  poetical 
achievement.  But  a  modern  antique  is  at  best  an  artificial 
thing.  The  interest  one  feels  in  it  is  derivative  and  indirect, 
not  original  and  immediate.  One  enjoys  it,  primarily,  be- 
cause it  resembles  something  else  that  one  enjoys ;  and,  sec- 
ondarily, because,  while  resembling,  it  differs.  On  either  side, 
it  is  an  associative,  dependent  enjoyment.  The  secondary 
pleasure  becomes,  in  the  case  of  the  Iiyhigenia,  the  princi- 
pal ;  in  other  words,  we  enjoy  an  ostensible  antique  most  of 
all  wherein  it  is  not  a  true  antique.  The  greatest  success, 
that  is  to  say,  of  the  poem,  paradoxically  lies  in  its  failure 
to  be  what  it  purports  to  be.  The  Samson  Agonistes  of 
Milton  is  a  less  pleasing,  but  it  is  a  truer  work  of  literary  art 
than  the  Iphigenia  of  Goethe.  That  poem  is  (if  the  solecism 
will  be  allowed)  a  real  modern  antique.  Tts  motive,  its  senti- 
ment, its  interest,  every  thing  of  it,  in  short,  except  its  form, 
belongs  to  the  date  supposed,  and  to  the  ethnic  conditions,  of 
the  occurrences  given.  The  work  is,  indeed,  a  mixture  of 
elements,  in  that  the  tragic  form  is  Greek,  while  the  whole 
tragic  spirit  is  Hebrew.  But  there  is  no  fundamental  anach- 
ronism in  the  /Samson  Agonistes  of  Milton,  as  in  the  Iphigenia 
of  Goethe  there  is.  "  [Milton's]  Samson  has  more  of  the  spirit 
of  ancient  times  than  any  production  of  any  other  modern 


Goethe.  191 

poet  ;  lie  [Milton]  is  great  indeed,"  was  Goethe's  own  judg- 
ment, pronounced  to  Eckermann.  Our  extract  from  the 
Iphigenia,  probably  the  finest  continuous  passage  of  equal 
length  that  the  drama  contains,  falls  short  of  indicating  fairly 
the  beauty  and  the  power  of  the  poem.  The  poem  is  great 
for  itself,  and  not  simply  for  striking  passages  in  it. 

Soon  after  his  return  to  Weimar  from  the  Italian  jour- 
ney, Goethe  published  a  second  "historical"  drama,  the  Eg- 
moiit.  This,  as  its  name  would  indicate,  deals  with  incidents 
in  the  famous  revolt  of  the  Netherlands  against  the  cruel, 
despotic,  and  persecuting  Roman  Catholic  sway  of  Charles  V. 
of  Spain.  The  poet,  in  constructing  his  drama,  departs 
widely,  and,  as  it  seems  to  us,  needlessly,  unwisely,  and  even 
unjustly,  from  the  truth  of  history.  The  departure  is  in 
one  respect  highly  characteristic  of  the  man,  as  Avell  as  of 
the  poet.  He  represents  Egraont  as  a  reckless  gallant  hav- 
ing for  mistress  a  girl  whom  he  has  betrayed.  The  historic 
fact  is  that  Egmont,  at  the  date  of  the  action  treated  by 
Goethe,  was  a  staid  married  man  with  a  large  family  of 
chiklren.  The  fabricated  mistress,  however,  is  one  of  the 
most  celebrated  creations,  in  human  character,  of  Goethe's 
genius.  Goethe  knew  well  enough  where  his  strength  lay. 
He  could  write  best  such  things  as  his  own  experience  fur- 
nished him.  Egmont's  "Clarchen,"  we  need  not  doubt,  was 
a  portrait  from  the  life. 

"Many-sidedness"  was  a  capital  objective  point  in  Goe- 
the's life-long  sedulous  self -culture.  Art  was  almost  as 
much  to  him  as  was  literature.  He  even  thought  that  per- 
haps his  vocation  was  to  be  a  painter.  The  doubt  was  to 
this  grent  philosophical  genius  a  problem  which  he  found  no 
better  way  of  solving  than  to  fling  his  pocket-knife,  a  "  hand- 
some "  one,  into  the  river,  while  he  said  to  himself,  K  I  see 
it  enter  the  water  then  I  will  be  a  painter;  but  if  the  bush- 
es on  the  bank  hide  it,  when  entering,  from  my  view,  then 
not.  He  did  not  devote  himself  to  painting  as  a  profession; 
but  to  painting  (and  indeed  to  every  form  of  art)  as  a  study, 
he  did.     His  house  in  Weimar  Ijecame  an  art  museum.     In 


192  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

his  latter  years  he  was  the  recipient  of  many  gifts  from 
many  lands,  in  the  form  of  works  of  art,  which  materially 
helped  him  enrich  his  collection. 

Science,  too,  Goethe  cultivated.  And  his  addiction  to  sci- 
ence revealed  at  once  a  singular  sagacity  and  a  singular 
fatuity  in  his  intellectual  character.  It  was  a  conceit  of 
Goethe's  that  he  had  made  original  scientific  investigations 
of  his  oMni  which  overthrew  Newton's  theory  of  colors. 
This  mistake,  on  his  part,  stares  posterity  in  the  face,  not 
only  in  the  form  of  dreary  tomes  filled  with  futile  disserta- 
tion (or  with  preposterous  vituperation,  directed  against  Sir 
Isaac  Newton),  from  the  author  of  Faust ;  but  also  in  tlie 
form  of  petulant  oral  expressions  from  the  serene  master  of 
smiling  wisdom,  preserved  for  us  all  in  the  printed  recollec- 
tions of  his  personal  friends.  To  Eckermann,  for  instance, 
Goethe  talked  in  this  flatulent  fashion: 

That  a  man  sliould  be  able  to  make  an  epoch  in  the  world's  history, 
two  conditions  are  essential — that  he  should  have  a  good  head  and  a 
great  inheritance.  Napoleon  inherited  the  French  Revolution;  Freder- 
ick the  Great,  the  Silesian  War;  Luther,  the  errors  of  the  popes;  and 
I,  those  of  the  Newtonian  theory  of  colors.  My  own  time  has  no  con- 
ception of  what  I  have  accomplished;  but  posterity  will  know. 

Posterity  indeed  knows;  not  exactly,  however, what  Goe- 
the, in  his  enormous  self-confidence,  imagined. 

On  the  other  side  of  the  balance,  Goethe  is  to  be  credited 
with  two  contributions,  solid,  if  not  very  important,  to  sci- 
ence; one  is  his  discovery  of  the  intermaxillary  bone  in  man, 
and  the  other  is  a  point  relating  to  the  metamorphoses  of 
plants  in  the  process  of  growth.  Professor  Tyndall,  it  may 
be  added,  in  a  late  painstaking  monograph  of  his  on  Goethe's 
Theory  of  Colors,  delivered  it  as  his  opinion  that  the  great 
German,  besides  being  wrong  utterly  in  his  conclusions,  was 
also  —  herein  contrasting  with  Sir  Isaac  Newton  —  utterly 
wrong  and  unscientific  in  his  methods  and  in  his  spirit. 

It  is  one  of  the  commonplaces  of  remark  about  Goethe, 
that  self -culture  was  the  great  aim  of  his  life;  that  in  this 
aim  is  to  be  found  the  true  unity  of  his  career.     Some  say 


Goethe.  193 

this  in  praise,  some  say  it  in  blame;  but  all  say  it,  and  it 
must  be  regarded  as  true.  To  us,  we  confess,  it  seems  an 
infinite  pity  that  there  did  not  come  to  this  "  divinely  gifted 
man  "  some  high  call  of  duty  outside  himself  to  which  he 
could  in  no  wise  refuse  to  respond.  What  might  not  such  a 
great  mind  have  done  for  his  fellows,  if  he  had  been  a  Great- 
heart  as  well?  And  perhaps  there  lacked  only  the  fit  op- 
portunity. One  feels  like  saying  this,  and  then  one  remem- 
bers that  the  Germany  of  Goethe's  time  was  trodden  under 
foot  of  strangers,  as  never  was  any  great  country  in  the 
world  before,  and  that  Goethe  shut  himself  up  to  study  Chi- 
nese, while  his  countrymen  were  struggling  in  that  great 
war  of  liberation  for  Germany  on  the  altar  of  which  young 
Korner  oftered  up  his  genius  and  his  life.  And  the  battle- 
fields of  his  country  afforded  Goethe  means  to  make  osteo- 
logical  investigations  among  the  bones  of  his  perished  breth- 
ren !  Jiorne,  a  German  patriot  Jew,  says  bitterly  of  Goethe, 
in  contrast  with  a  long  list  of  other  great  poets  named  by 
him: 

But  how  has  Goethe  exhibited  liimself  to  his  countrymen  and  to  the 
world?  As  the  citizen  of  a  free  city  he  merely  recollected  that  he  was 
the  grandson  of  a  mayor  who,  at  the  coronation  of  the  Emperor  of 
Germany,  was  allowed  to  hold  the  temporary  office  of  chamberlain. 
As  the  child  of  honest  and  respectable  parents  he  was  delighted  when 
once  a  dirty  boy  in  the  street  called  him  a  bastard;  and  he  wandered 
forth  in  imagination  (the  imagination  of  a  future  poet)  the  son  of  some 
prince,  questioning  himself  as  to  luhich  he  might  perchance  belong  to. 
Tlius  he  tuas,  and  llius  he  remained.  Not  once  has  he  ever  advanced 
a  poor,  solitary  word  in  his  country's  cause — he  who,  from  the  lofty 
height  which  he  had  attained,  might  have  spoken  out  what  none  other 
but  himself  could  dare  to  pronounce.  Some  few  years  since,  he  peti- 
tioned "their  iugh  and  highest  mightinesses"  of  the  German  Confed- 
eration to  grant  his  writings  their  all-powerful  protection  against  piracy ; 
but  lie  did  not  remember  to  include  in  his  praj'er  an  extension  of  the 
same  privilege  to  his  literar}'  contemporaries. 

Goethe's  defense  of  himself  against  the  charge  of  want  of 

patriotism  was  substantially  that  he  had  devoted  himself  to 

encouraging  sound  culture  among  his  countrymen,  and  that 

he  had  "  uniformly  refused  to  mix  himself  up  with  party 

9 


194  Classic  German  Course  in  Ewjlish. 

politics."  When,  however,  the  tide  of  French  invasion 
rolled  its  waves  up  to  the  door  of  his  own  house  in  Weimar, 
and  his  patron  duke  was  made  to  feel  the  weight  of  Napo- 
leon's displeasure,  then  at  length  Goethe  had  something  to 
say,  which  he  said  with  sighs  and  tears,  against  the  ruthless 
invader.  But  again,  Goethe,  about  this  time,  had  a  personal 
interview  with  Napoleon,  and  that  conqueror  quite  won  the 
late  indignant  and  lachrymose  poet's  heart,  by  telling  him 
that  he  had  read  Werther  seven  times,  and  saying  to  him, 
with  characteristic  brutality  of  compliment,  Vous  etes  un 
ho  I  nme  C' Yon  are  a  man").  The  conqueror  decorated  the 
poet  with  the  cross  of  the  Legion  of  Honor,  and  the  poet 
wreathed  the  conqueror  with  the  laurel  of  his  song.  And 
such  was  Goethe. 

The  poet's  genius  was  growing  dull  and  barren  under 
too  much  self-culture  on  his  part,  or  under  too  little  exercise 
of  outward  expression,  Avhen  there  happened  to  Goethe  one 
of  the  great  felicities  of  his  life,  Schiller,  in  1794,  made  dis- 
creet and  wary  advances  toward  friendly  relation  with  Goe- 
the, the  speedy  fruit  of  which  Avas  a  solid  alliance,  offensive 
and  defensive,  between  the  two  men,  lasting  till  Schiller 
died.  "  You  have  given  me  a  second  youth  and  refashioned 
me  into  a  poet,  which  I  may  be  said  to  have  ceased  to  be^" 
Goethe  generously  wrote  to  Schiller  in  1798.  Schiller's  re- 
ciprocal debt  to  Goethe  was  perhaps  greater. 

The  volumes  of  published  correspondence  between  Goethe 
and  Schiller  constitute  a  remarkable  monument  of  the  mu- 
tual friendship  of  these  two  illustrious  men — by  cotnmon 
consent  the  most  illustrious  in  German  literary  history. 
Friendshi]),  we  may  justly  call  their  reciprocal  relation  to 
each  other;  but  it  was  an  affair  between  them  much  more 
of  the  head  than  of  the  heart.  The  word  league,  or  alliance, 
would  better  suit  the  fact  that  existed.  Each  had  his  per- 
sonal reason  for  wishing  the  literary  support  of  the  other, 
and  a  treaty  was  accordingly  negotiated  between  them. 
The  letters  they  exchanged  are  noteworthy  for  the  strict 
elecM-um  of  punctilious  respect  invariably  paid  by  each  to 


Goethe.  195 

the  other.  There  is  never  the  self-forgetting-,  the  self-dis- 
closing, the  self-surrendering,  of  trustful  familiarity.  Ad- 
dressing Zelter — with  whom,  also,  Goethe  maintained  a  long 
correspondence — I  he  great  man  sometimes  condescended  to 
say  "Thou."  ("Thou"  is  the  note,  with  a  German,  of  fa- 
miliar friendly  aftection.)  Goethe  nowiiere  to  Schiller  writes 
"Tliou."  Very  different  in  this  respect  is,  on  both  sides, 
the  tone  of  the  correspondence  between  Schiller  and  Korner 
from  that  of  the  correspondence  between  Schiller  and  Goethe. 
Five  years  before  the  treaty  of  alliance  was  finally  concluded 
by  him  with  Goethe,  Schiller  had  written  bitterly  of  the  lat- 
ter to  Korner.  The  poor  and  proud  young  poet  had  been 
waiting,  and  waiting  in  vain,  for  some  response  from  Goethe 
to  earlier  overtures,  ventured  by  him,  looking  toward  the  es- 
tablishment of  personal  relation  between  himself  and  that 
literary  lord  of  Weimar,  liringing  himself  at  length  to  the 
l)oint  of  trying  again,  Schiller  wrote  to  Goethe  an  ex- 
tremely skillful  diplomatic  letter,  begging  the  latter's  col- 
laboration in  support  of  a  magazine,  the  Hours,  which  he 
was  about  to  start.  The  moment  was  lucky,  and  that  skill- 
ful letter  accomplished  its  purpose;  Goethe  and  Schiller 
were  thenceforward  allies.  But  the  Goethe-Scliiller  corre- 
spondence contains  no  evidence  that  the  high  contracting 
parties  to  this  famous  treaty  of  alliance  ever  got  on  any  dif- 
ferent footing  with  each  other  from  that  of  mutual  complais- 
ance dictated  by  mutual  self-interest. 

Goethe,  previously  to  the  formation  of  his  friendship 
witli  Schiller,  had  begun  his  "novel"  of  WiUu'lni  Meister, 
as  also  his  poem  of  FuuhI.  These  works  were,  both  of 
them,  the  fruit  of  slow,  long,  and  intermittent  activity  on 
the  part  of  their  author.  There  was  nothing  external  to 
make  Goethe  work  hard  and  continuously  ;  and  that  inward 
"spur  which  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise"  had,  in  (ioethe's 
case,  been,  by  many  diversions,  much  hindered  from  pricking 
effectively.  Now,  however,  Schiller  became  a  spur  io  (ioethe 
which  for  ten  years  did  not  let  him  rest.  Goethe  in  return 
became,  to  Schiller,  a  curbing  and  a  guiding  rein,  wiiich, 


196  Classic  German  Course  in  l^nglish. 

during  the  same  period,  did  what  was  possible  to  bring  that 
essentially  youthful  and  essentially  immature,  though  noble 
and  lofty,  genius  into  the  right  law  and  habit  of  movement 
for  finishing  successfully  his  brief  and  brilliant  career. 

Goethe's  Wllhelin  3Ieister  is  fundamentally  German  in 
quality  and  spirit.  -To  enjoy  it  thoroughly,  you  must  be 
yourself  a  German.  For  imagining  that  you  thoroughly 
enjoy  it,  it  might  be  enough  for  you  to  be  profoundly  per- 
suaded that  Goethe  was  too  great  a  genius  and  too  mighty 
a  mouth  of  wisdom  not  to  make  his  prose  masterpiece  a  boi)k 
worthy  of  j^our  studious  heed.  The  present  writer  well 
remembers  how  he  himself,  years  ago,  in  the  hopeful,  credu- 
lous blood  of  youth,  undertook  the  reading  of  Wilhehn 
Meister — having  heard  that  herein  was  reposed  the  sura  of 
the  wisdom  reaped  by  one  of  the  wisest  of  men  during  half 
a  century  or  more  of  the  rich  experience  of  life.  What  was 
his  surprise,  and  what  his  dazed  and  dismayed  disgust,  to 
find  himself  plunged  almost  at  once  into  a  reek  of  animalism, 
open,  contented,  cheerful,  unashamed  animalism,  only  to  be 
likened  to  the  fable  of  Circe's  sty  !  He  revolted,  and  gave 
up  his  reading;  but  such  was  the  spell  still  upon  him  of 
prevalent  conventional  opinion,  that  he  remained  in  a  com- 
fortless feeling  that  he  Avas  himself  somehow  at  fault,  in  not 
having  yet  been  educated  up  to  the  proper  point  for  making 
that  sort  of  thing  food  for  his  soul.  As  in  duty  bound,  he  has, 
of  late,  for  the  purpose  of  this  book,  gone,  with  open  mind, 
resolutely  through,  from  beginning  to  end,  not,  he  believes, 
skipping  a  page,  the  Avhole  story  of  the  "Apprenticeship" 
of  Wilhelra  Meister.  Of  that  worthy's  "  Travels  "—for  the 
work  is  divided  into  parts  thus  named — he  dare  not  testify 
but  he  may  have  spared  himself  here  and  there  a  paragraph. 
Thus  qualified  to  form  his  own  opinion,  the  writer  ventures 
to  sum  up  the  good  and  the  bad  of  this  noted  production, 
by  describing  the  Wilhebn  Meister  as  a  tissue  of  smoothly, 
suavely,  harmoniously  woven  German  prose,  constituting  a 
dull,  slow,  prolix,  low,  groveling,  fleshly,  ill-schemed,  loose- 
jointed,  invertebrate,  dim,  beclouded,  enigmatical,  self-com- 


G-oethe.  197 

placently   autobiographic    "  novel  "  —  with   episodes,   or   at 
least  passages  in  it,  worthy  of  the  fame  of  its  author. 

By  immemorial  custom,  tlie  German  mechanic  goes  througli 
two  stages  of  experience ;  one  in  which  he  is  an  "  apprentice," 
and  one,  subsequent,  in  which  he  makes  a  round  of  "  travel," 
as  a  journeyman.  Wilhelm  Meister,  Goethe's  liero,  is 
"apprenticed  "  to  life,  in  the  first  part  of  tlie  story;  and  in 
the  second  part,  he  is  supposed  to  have  become  a  "  master." 
The  idea  of  the  book  was  expressly  adapted  for  enabling  tlie 
autlior,  on  a  thread  of  disguised  and  freely  modified  autobi- 
ography, to  string  the  pearls  of  wisdom  that  he  had  gathered 
from  the  observation  and  reflection  of  his  life.  Wilhelm 
Meister  (that  is,  Goethe  himself),  after  an  early  youth  of 
sensuality — so  described  by  the  author  that  Thomas  Carlyle 
in  translating  felt  compelled  to  abate  at  points  the  incredibly 
vulgar  details  into  which  the  original  enters — young  Wil- 
helm Meister,  we  say,  runs  dishonorably  away  from  home 
and  joins  a  strolling  band  of  play-actors  and  actresses,  with 
whom  he  spends  the  whole  time  of  his  "  apprenticeship." 
Of  the  incidents  naturally  composing  the  experience  of  sucli 
a  wandering  company,  the  plot  of  the  story,  if  plot  it  can 
be  called,  is  made  up.  Remarks  and  criticisms  on  dramatic 
writing  and  on  dramatic  representation  are  interspersed — 
remarks  and  criticisms  having  certainly  their  value,  but  also 
certainly  having  no  proper  place  in  a  "  novel."  One  whole 
"  book  "  of  Wilhelm  Meister  consists  of  a  narrative,  purport- 
ing to  be  given  by  herself  in  writing,  of  the  religious 
experience  of  a  female  character  incidentally  introduced 
into  the  story.  The  title  of  this  "book"  is,  77<e  Coyifessloiis 
of  a  Fair  Saint.  The  evident  purpose  of  the  author  was, 
simply  to  make  literary  use  of  some  material  that  he  had 
acquired  througli  acquaintance  once  enjoyed  with  a  lovely 
Christian  woman  who  had  sought  to  win  the  wayward  and 
brilliant  young  Goethe  to  Christ.  This  episode,  if  it  were 
not  so  manifestly  a  piece  of  mere  literary  practice  on  the 
part  of  the  autlun',  would  seem  to  possess  a  certain  cliarm  of 
spiritual  refinement.     Lest,  to  some  reader  of  ours,  graciously 


198  Classic  German.  Course  in  English. 

willing  to  lliink  tlie  Lest  that  is  possible  of  every  man,  we 
seem  to  be  judging  Goethe  at  this  point  with  too  litth^ 
charity,  we  quote  here  some  expressions  from  our  author 
on  the  subject  of  liis  own  personal  relation  to  God,  which 
will  be  sufficient  to  indicate  how  far  from  the  Christian 
spirit  he  consciously  and  deliberately  was: 

I  liad  believed  from  my  youth  upward  that  I  stood  on  very  grood  terms 
with  my  God — nay,  T  even  fancied  to  mj^self,  according  to  various  experi- 
ences, that  he  might  even  l)e  in  arrears  to  me;  and  I  was  daring  enough 
to  tlnuk  tliat  I  lind  something  to  forgive  him.  This  presumption  was 
grounded  on  my  infinite  good-will,  to  which,  as  it  seemed  to  me,  he  sliould 
liave  given  better  assistance. 

The  foregoing  is  indeed  told  as  a  course  of  thought  be- 
longing to  tlie  author's  youth  ;  but  the  autobiographer,  now 
sixt3^-three  years  old,  neither  expresses  nor  implies  any  repu- 
diation or  any  disai)proval  of  these  youthful  sentiments  of 
his.  Nay,  at  seventy -three  years  of  age,  writing  to  a  lady 
who  had  addressed  to  him  an  earnest  Christian  expostulation, 
he  expresses  himself,  in  almost  the  same  tone  of  religious 
self-complacency,  as  follows: 

All  my  life  I  have  meant  honestly  toward  myself  and  others,  and  in  all 
my  earthly  action  have  looked  to  the  higliest.  .  .  .  Let  ns  remain  un- 
troubled about  the  future  [tbat  is,  the  future  following  death]. 

The  one  really  beautiful  thing — this  is  by  no  means  wholly 
a  beautiful  thing — in  creation  of  character  and  in  imao-ina- 
tion  of  fate,  is  the  interwoven  episode  of  Mignon.  This  we 
must  show  in  just  a  glimpse  or  two,  to  our  readers,  and 
therewith  dismiss  the  IVilhelm  Meister  to  the  limbo  in  which 
it  belongs. 

Mignon  is  the  name  of  a  mysterious  child  drop])ed  into 
the  hands  of  Wilhelm,  as  fruit  of  his  experience  with  the 
strolling  players.  An  Italian  gentleman  of  rank  had,  by  sad 
fatality,  without  knowing  tlie  truth  of  that  lady's  relation  to 
him,  fallen  in  love  with  his  own  sister.  He  is  under  vow^s  as 
a  priest,  and  he  cannot  marry;  but  this  child  Mignon  is  born 
to  the  pair  out  of  wedlock.  (The  base  and  the  beautiful  are 
so  mingled  in  Goethe's  work,  that  pure  beaut}-  it  is  often 


Goethe.  199 

impossible  to  get,  without  dis])leasiiig  adhesion  of  basoiicss.) 
The  mother  di<.'s,  and  the  crazed  father,  at  rest  in  mind,  but 
in  body  restless,  wanders  about  the  world  leading  his  daugh- 
ter, and  carrying  a  harp,  on  whicli  he  makes  weird  niusie. 
Wilhelm  falls  in  with  this  strange  pair,  and  Mignon,  child  as 
she  is,  conceives  precociously  a  passion  for  him.  There  is 
not  a  little  detail  about  the  cliild's  conduct  in  her  relation 
to  Wilhelm  which,  though  for  this  "  novel "  comparatively 
unobjectionable,  will  not  bear  reproducing.  The  end  is,  that 
Mignon,  grown  old  enough  at  length  to  have  the  woman's 
feeling,  goes  distraught  with  hopeless  love  for  Wilhelm, 
dies,  and  is  buried  with  beautiful  exequies.  It  is  not  till 
after  her  death  and  burial  that  the  secret  of  her  birth  and 
the  mystery  of  the  harper,  her  father,  are  explained — as  we 
have  explained  them. 

Succeed  in  dissociating  what  disgusts  from  the  story  of 
Mignon,  and  the  cleansed  remainder  you  find  pure  and  beau- 
tiful. There  was  real  genius  at  work  in  the  creation  and 
display  of  this  character  and  fate. 

Mignon  sings  a  pathetic  song,  mingled  of  love-sick  long- 
ing unconfessed  toward  Wilhelm,  and  of  home-sick  longing 
toward  Italy — her  native  land,  dimly  remembered  by  the 
child — and  toward  that  mansion  which  had  been  the  home  of 
her  infancy.  This  melody  is  one  of  the  loveliest  of  Goethe's 
lyrics;  anil  here  it  is,  sympathetically  translated  by  Mr.  W. 
H.  Channing : 

Know'st  tliou  the  land,  vvliere  flowers  of  cUron  bloom, 
The  golden  orange  glows  through  leafy  gloom, 
From  the  blue  heavens  the  breezes  float  so  bland, 
The  myrtle  still,  and  tall  the  laurels  stand? 
Know'st  thou  the  land? 

0  there.  0  there! 
Loved  one,  with  thee  I  long  to  wander  tlierc. 

Know'st  thon  the  iiouse?     Its  roof  the  columns  bear — 
The  polished  floors,  the  lialls  so  bright  and  liiir. 
Where  marble  figures  standing  look  on  me  : 
"Tiiou  jjoorost  child,  what  have  they  done  to  thee?" 


200  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Kuovv'st  lliOLi  the  house? 

0  tliere,  0  there! 
With  thee,  kind  guardian,  0  could  I  be  there! 

Know'st  thou  the  mountain  peak  ? — the  airy  bridge, 
Where  loaded  mules  climb  o'er  the  misty  ridge? 
In  hollows  dwell  the  serpent's  ancient  brood; 
The  rent  crag  rushes  down  the  foaming  flood. 
Know'st  thou  the  mount? 

0  there,  0  there 
Leadeth  our  way — 0,  father,  let  us  there! 

The  exequies  of  Mignon  are,  in  conception,  at  once  pagan 
and  beautiful.     They  are  thus  described  : 

The  company  proceeded  to  the  Hall  of  the  Past:  they  found  it  magniti- 
cently  ornamented  and  illuminated.  The  walls  were  hung  with  azure 
tapestry  almost  from  ceiling  to  floor,  so  that  nothing  but  the  friezes  and 
socles,  above  and  below,  were  visible.  On  the  four  candelabra  in  the 
corner,  large  wax  lights  were  burning;  smaller  lights  were  in  the  four 
smaller  candelabra  placed  by  the  sarcophagus  in  the  middle.  Near  this 
stood  four  boys  dressed  in  azure  with  silver;  they  had  broad  fans  of 
ostrich-feathers,  which  they  waved  above  a  fluure  that  was  resting  upon 
the  sarcophagus.  The  company  sat  down ;  two  invisible  choruses  began 
in  a  soft,  musical  recitative  to  ask,  "Whom  bring  ye  us  to  the  still  dwell- 
ing?" The  four  boys  replied  with  lovely  voices,  " 'Tis  a  tired  playmate 
whom  we  bring  you ;  let  her  rest  in  your  still  dwelling,  till  the  songs  of 
her  heavenly  sisters  once  more  awaken  her." 

Chorus.  Firstling  of  youth  in  our  circle,  we  welcome  thee  I  with 
sadness  welcome  thee!  May  no  boy,  no  maiden,  follow!  feet  age  only, 
willing  and  composed,  approach  the  silent  hall,  and  in  the  silent  company 
repose  this  one  dear  child ! 

Boys.  Ah,  reluctantly  we  brought  her  hither !  Ah,  and  she  is  to 
remain  here!  Let  us,  too,  remain;  let  us  weep,  let  us  weep  upon  her 
bier ! 

Chorus.  Yet  look  at  the  strong  wings;  look  at  the  light,  clear  robe. 
How  glitters  the  golden  band  upon  her  head!  Look  at  the  beautiful,  llie 
noble,  repose! 

Boys.  Ah!  the  wings  do  not  raise  her;  in  the  frolic  game,  her  robe 
flutters  to  and  fro  no  more ;  when  we  bound  her  head  with  roses,  her 
looks  on  us  were  kind  and  friendly. 

Chorus.  Cast  forward  the  eye  of  the  spirit.  Awake  in  j^our  souls  the 
imaginative  power,  whicii  carries  forth  what  is  fairest,  what  is  highest, 
life,  away  bejond  the  stars. 

BoY.s.     But,  ah!    we  find  her   not  here;    in  the   garden  she  wanders 


Goethe.  201 

not;  the  flowers  of  the  meadow  she  plucks  no  lons^er.  Let  us  weep,  we 
are  leaving  her  here  !     Let  us  weep,  and  remain  with  her ! 

Chorus.  Children,  turn  back  into  life !  Your  tears  let  the  fresh  air 
dry,  which  phiys  upon  the  rushing  water.  Flee  from  night!  Day  and 
pleasure  and  coutinuance  are  the  lot  of  the  living. 

Boys.  Up!  Turn  back  into  hfe!  Let  the  day  give  us  labor  and 
pleasure,  till  the  evening  gives  us  rest,  and  the  nightly  sleep  refreshes  us. 

Chorus.  Children  !  hasten  into  life  I  In  the  pure  garments  of  beautj', 
may  Love  meet  you  with  heavenly  looks  and  vviili  the  wreath  of  immor- 
tality ! 

An  abbe,  after  the  boys  retire,  makes  an  appropriate 
little  pagan  address,  and  the  occasion  is  over. 

Here  is  a  sentence  on  Wilhehn  Meister  from  Carlyle  himself, 
prononnced  by  him  when  fresh  from  his  labor  and  his  dis- 
gust in  getting  well  acquainted  with  the  production,  through 
translating  it  for  the  publishers :  "  There  is  not,  properly 
speaking,  the  smallest  particle  of  historical  [narrative] 
interest  in  it  except  what  is  connected  with  Mignon,  Meis- 
ter himself  is  perhaps  one  of  the  greatest  ganaches  [block- 
heads] that  ever  was  created  by  quill  and  ink.  I  am  going 
to  write  a  fierce  preface  disclaiming  all  concern  with  the 
literary  or  the  moral  merit  of  the  work,  .  ,  .  What  a  work » 
Bushels  of  dust  and  straw  and  feathers,  with  here  and  there 
a  diamond  of  the  purest  water." 

When  he  was  a  man  sixty  years  old,  Goethe  wrote  a  second 
"  novel,"  entitled  Elective  Affinities.  The  idea  of  this  is  to 
exhibit  the  principle  of  free  love  working  to  separate  married 
})airs  and  to  join  them  anew  in  other  alligation,  according  to 
their  natural  "  elective  affinities." 

Attention  has  yet  to  be  })aid  to  that  selected  work  of 
(xoethe  which  is  universally  esteemed  the  crowning  achieve- 
ment of  his  genius  ;  we  mean,  of  course,  the  Faust.  Briefly, 
however,  meantime,  of  a  purer,  if  less  aspiring,  poem  of  his, 
the  Ilerniann  and  Dorothea. 

This  is  perhaps  the  most  strictly  popular  of  Goetlie's  longer 

pieces  in   verse.     It  is  what  the  author   himself  styles  an 

"epic"  poem;  though  the  extremely  humble  tone  of  it  is 

such  tliat  we  English-speakers  sliouid  more  naturally  describe 

9* 


202  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

it  as  an  idyll.  The  stoiy  is  a  story  of  love,  love  complicate*! 
vi'ith  various  domestic  passions  suHiciently  plebeian.  The 
local  color  is  inimitably  German.  Goethe  hits  in  it  an  idiom 
of  expression  felicitously  faithful  to  the  dialect  of  common 
village  life  in  Germany.  The  thinking,  and  the  feeling  too, 
of  the  poem  are  as  faultlessly  real  as  is  the  language  in 
which  they  speak.  The  keeping,  the  harmony,  is  through- 
out almost  ideal.  In  short,  the  TIennann  and  Dorothea 
is  an  eminently  successful  piece  of  poetic  art.  The  artist 
performs  for  poetry  the  part  that  Socrates  is  said  to  have 
performed  for  philosophy.  He  brings  her  down  from  the 
clouds  and  makes  her  walk  on  the  ground. 

For  it  is  walking,  not  Hying,  that  Goethe's  muse  does  in 
the  IIerman)i  and  Dorothea.  Scarcely  once  does  she  bal- 
ance her  wings  and  lift  lierself  free  in  the  air.  She  walks, 
she  aitibles,  in  hexameters.  Very  softly  flowing  hexameters 
they  are,  the  perfection  of  what  the  German  language  in 
that  verse  admits.  The  constraint  of  effort  disappears  in  tlie 
ease  of  triumphant  execution. 

There  is  a  very  satisfactory  English  hexameter  version  of 
the  Hermann  and  Dorothea.  From'  this  we  give  a  single 
very  brief  extract,  an  extract  sufficient,  however,  to  indicate 
the  character  of  the  whole  poem.  The  story,  in  short,  of 
the  idyll  is  that  Hermann,  son  of  an  inn-keeper  who  feels 
the  dignity  of  his  calling,  falls  in  love  with  a  girl  met  by 
him  as  she  goes,  in  company  with  a  caravan  of  refugees 
from  war's  alarms,  to  some  unknown  place  of  refuge.  The 
young  fellow  makes  a  confidant  of  his  mother,  who  under- 
takes hopefully  to  bring  round  his  highly  opinionated  father, 
at  present  much  set  on  a  different  match  for  his  son.  Several 
villagers  are  taken  into  counsel  on  the  subject — in  a  manner 
decidedly  German  as  distinguished  from  American. 

The  village  pastor  and  the  village  apothecary  undertake, 
on  the  general  family  belialf,  to  go  and  view  the  maiden 
and  report  results.  They  do  this,  and,  to  make  assurance 
doubly  sure,  the  shame-faced  young  man  engages  the  maiden 
out-of-hand — as  his  wife?  no,  he  dared  not  yet  risk  refusal 


Goethe.  203 

at  lier  hands,  but  as  a  servant  in  his  father's  liouse.  She  frankly 
accepts  the  protlered  phiee  and  conies  liome  accordingly  with 
the  basliful  yoiitli.  But  the  youth's  father  very  nearly  s[)oils 
his  son's  prudent  plan.  Coarsely,  on  her  first  arrival,  he 
rallies  the  modest  young  creature  as  his  son's  "  bride  "  full 
easily  won.  The  pastor  intervenes,  however,  and  the  maiden, 
who  was  about  to  go  away  cruelly  wounded  in  feeling,  is  then 
and  there,  the  crisis  having  been  so  preci])itated,  indeed 
wooed  and  won.  There  is  nothing  better  in  the  poem  than 
the  management  on  Goethe's  part  of  this  sudden  develop- 
ment of  plot.  The  full  text  of  the  passage  is  leisurely  and 
long  drawn  out.  We  shall  have  to  condense  our  extract. 
The  father,  mistaking  the  situation,  addresses  the  girl  : 

"  Ay,  this  is  pleasant,  my  child  !     T  am  glud  to  sec  that  my  son  is 
Blessed  with  good  taste,  like  liis  sire.  .  .  . 

And  you  required,  I  suppo.se,  but  a  short  time  to  form  your  couflusion, 
For,  sure,  it  seems  to  me  that  he's  not  such  a  hard  one  to  follow." 

Hormann  but  slightl_y  caught  these  words,  but  his  limbs  to  the  marrow 
Quivered,  and  all  at  once  the  whole  circle  was  hushed  into  silence. 

But  the  excellent  maiden  b}'  words  of  such  cruel  mocking 

(As  they  appeared),  being  hurt  and  deeply  wounded  in  spirit, 

Stood  there,  her  cheeks  to  her  neck  suffused  with  quick-spreading  blushes  ; 

Yet  her  feelings  she  checked,  and  her  self-possession  regaining. 

Though  not  entirely  concealing  her  pain,  thus  spake  to  the  old  man: 

"  Trulj',  for  such  a  reception  your  son  quite  failed  to  prepare  me, 
Painting  to  me  the  ways  of  his  father,  that  excellent  burgher. 

Is  it  nol)le  to  make  me  at  once  the  butt  of  sucli  mocking 
As,   on    the  very   threshold,   well-nigli  from  your  house   drove   mo  back- 
ward?" 

Mnch  was  Hermann  alarmed,  and  made  signs  to  his  good  friend  the  pastor. 

Who  upon  that  thus  addressed  her  with  words  of  searching  intenliou  : 
"Surel}',  thou  foreign  maiden,  thou  didst  not  wisely  consider, 
AVhen  with  all  liaste  thou  resolvedst  to  be  a  servant  to  strangers. 

Truly,  thou  seem'st  not  well-suited  for  tliis,  since  the  jokes  of  the  failier 
Wound  thee  so  deopl^^  at  once  ;  and  yet  there  is  nothing  more  common 
Than  to  tease  a  girl  about  finding  a  3'outli  to  her  fancy." 


204  Classic  German  Course  in  j^ngllsk. 

Thus  with  hot  gushing  tears  she  at  once  addressed  him  in  answer: 

"  Happy  are  ye,  and  glad;  and  how  should  a  joke  then  e'er  wound  you? 

Let  nie  again  begone  I     In  the  house  no  more  may  I  tarry. 

I  will  away,  and  go  to  seek  my  poor  people  in  exile, 

Whom  I  forsook  in  their  trouble,  to  choose  for  my  own  profit  only. 

This  is  my  firm  resolve;  and  now  I  may  dare  to  acknowledge 

That  which  else  in  my  heart  full  many  a  year  had  lain  hidden. 

Yes,  the  father's  mocking  hath  deeply  wounded  me;  not  that 

I  am  peevish  and  proud  (whicli  would  ill  become  a  poor  servant), 

But  that,  in  truth,  I  felt  in  my  heart  a  strong  inclination 

Tow'rd  the  youth  who  to-day  had  appeared  as  my  saviour  from  evil. 

And  wlien  I  found  him  again  at  the  well,  the  sight  of  him  pleased  me 

Not  at  all  less  than  if  1  had  seen  an  angel  from  heaven ; 

And  ray  consent  was  so  glad,  when  he  asked  me  to  come  as  a  servant!  " 

Now  for  the  first  time  I  feel  how  far  a  poor  maiden  is  severed 
From  the  youth  who  is  rich,  although  she  were  never  so  prudent, 
All  this  now  liave  I  told,  that  you  may  not  my  heart  misinterpret. 

And  I  will  now  go  forth  again,  as  I've  long  been  accustomed, 
Caught  by  the  wliirlwind  of  time,  to  part  from  all  I  could  cherish. 
Fare  ye  well !     I  can  stay  no  longer,  but  all  is  now  over." 

Thus  she  spoke,  and  agani  to  the  door,  was  quickly  returning, 

Still  keeping  under  her  arm  the  little  bundle  brought  with  her. 

But  with  both  her  arms  the  mother  laid  hold  of  the  maiden. 

Clinging  round  her  waist,  and  cried  in  wondering  amazement: 

"Say,  what  meanest  thou  by  tliis,  and  these  tears  now  shed  to  no  purpose? 

No,  I  will  not  permit  thee,  thou  art  my  son's  own  betrotiied  one." 

But  tlie  father  stood  there  displeased  witli  what  was  before  liim. 
Eying  the  weeping  women,  and  spoke  with  the  words  of  vexation : 
"  This,  then,  befalls  me  at  last,  as  the  greatest  test  of  forbearance. 
That  at  the  close  of  the  day  what  is  most  unpleasant  should  happen! 
For  I  find  nothing  so  hard  to  bear  as  the  weeping  of  women. 
And  the  passionate  scream,  that  with  eager  confusion  commences. 
Scenes  which  a  little  good  sense  might  soften  down  with  more  comfort. 
Irksome  is  it  to  me  still  to  look  on  this  wondrous  beginning ; 
Ye  must  conclude  it  yourselves,  for  I  to  my  bed  am  now  going." 

Tlie  retiring   father  is  detained  by  the  son  and  all  is  hap- 
pily concluded  by  a  betrothal,  duly,  on  the  spot,  sealed  and 


Goethe.  205 

witnessed  between  the  youth  and  the  maiden.  The  actual 
marriage  is  left  to  anticipation. 

Voss  (Johann  Heinrich:  1751-182G),  an  important  German 
literary  figure,  was  befoi-ehand  with  Goethe  in  the  species  of 
poetry  of  which  the  Hermann  and  Dorothea  became  immedi- 
ately and  permanently  the  most  illustrious  German  exemplar. 
That  writer's  Luise  it  was,  which  led  to  Goethe's  Hermann 
and  Dorothea.  It  would  be  a  nice  attempt  of  poetic  taste — 
l)oetic  taste,  it  would  need  to  be,  conversant  with  German 
life  and  with  the  German  language — to  feel  and  to  state  the 
difference  in  quality  which  creates  the  contrast  between  the 
foregoing  from  the  Hermann  and  Dorothea^  and  the  follow- 
ing from  the  Luise,  for  which  we  use  a  fragment  of  transla- 
tion found  in  Fraser''s  3fagazine  for  April,  1849. 

It  was  Luise's  birthday.  The  family  in  honor  of  the  occa- 
sion take  their  noon-day  meal,  German  fashion,  out-of-doors. 
The  lines  we  first  extract  describe  the  scene  and  then  hint 
liow  the  good  old  pastor  is  disposed  of  by  his  wife,  to  give 
Luise  and  her  lover  their  chance  together.     Voss  : 

Under  the  sweet,  cool  shade  of  two  umbrageous  lime-trees, 

Wliicli,  with  their  gold  bloom  gay,  with  the  bees'  song  drowsily  ringing, 

Shading  the  parlor  front,  o'er  the  mossed  roof  whispered  waving. 

Cheerfully  held  hia  feast  the  worth}'  Pastor  of  Griinau, 

For  his  Louisa's  sake — domestic,  yet  grand,  in  his  nightgown. 

"  Sleep  tiiou  cool  in  the  chamber.     Alreadj'  has  housemaid  Susannah 
Drugged  the  flies  with  pepper  and  milk;  and  caught  in  tlie  mousetrap 
Him  that  we  saw,  and  made  the  alcove  all  pleasant  and  airy." 
Thus  spake  slie,  and  drew  her  loved  spouse  into  the  chamber, 

While  the  maid  the  remains  of  the  meal  and  the  festival  glasses 
('arricd  away,  with  the  diapered  cloth  that  covered  the  table." 

How  evidently  is  this  in  the  Homeric  manner  humiliated  ! 
(Voss  translated  Homer  into  German  hexameters.)  The 
lines  following  sliow  wliat  Goethe's  teacher  in  "  epic  "  poetry 
could  do  in  a  higher  mood — a  mood  of  gentle,  pensive  pa- 
thos.    The  pastor  of  Griinau   blesses  his  daughter,  a  wife 


206  Classic  German  Coarse  in  Englisli. 

about    departing    with    her    husband,    to    leave  her  father 
lonely  : 

May  tJic  blessing  of  God,  my  clearest  and  loveliest  daughter, 

Be  with  thee!  yea,  the  blessing  of  God  on  this  earth  and  in  heaven! 

Young  have  I  been,  and  now  am  old,  and  of  joy  and  of  sorrow. 

In  this  uncertain  life,  sent  by  God,  much,  much  have  I  tasted: 

God  be  thanked  for  both !     0,  soon  shall  I  now  with  my  fathers 

La}'  my  gray  head  in  the  grave!  how  fain!  for  my  daughter  is  happy; 

Happy,  because  she  knows  this,  that  our  God,  like  a  father  who  watches 

Carefully  over  his  children,  us  blesses  in  joy  and  in  sorrow. 

Soon,  soon  my  daughter's  chamber,  soon  't  will  be  desolate  to  me, 
And  my  daughter's  place  at  the  table!     In  vain  shall  I  listen 
For  her  voice  afar  off,  and  her  footsteps  at  distance  approaching ! 
When  with  thy  husband  on  that  way  thou  from  me  art  departed. 
Sobs  will  escape  me,  and  thee  my  eyes  bathed  in  tears  long  will  follow. 

Voss's  poem  is  less  happily  transferred  to  English  than  is 
Goethe's.  But  what  our  readers  have  seen  may  serve  to 
help  them  judge  for  themselves  the  extent  to  which  Goethe 
was  pupil  to  Voss  in  the  line  of  "  epic  "  poetry. 

Now  for  the  Faust.  This  is  a  traged}^  founded  on  the 
familiar  mytli  of  a  man's  selling  himself  to  the  devil — for  an 
appropriate  consideration.  The  name  "  Faust "  is  the  name, 
shortened,  of  a  real  person,  Doctor  Johannes  Faustus,  pro- 
fessor of  magic  and  of  black  arts,  who  lived  in  Germany,  a 
contemporary  of  Luther  and  Melanchthon. 

The  legend  of  Faust  has  for  three  centuries  haunted  the 
German  imagination,  and,  indeed,  the  imagination  of  Euro]»e. 
It  has  been  often  treated  in  literature.  Lessing  tried  his 
hand  on  it.  But,  before  Lessing,  an  experiment  more  note- 
worthy still  than  Ids  had  been  made.  The  English  poet 
Marlowe  was  a  precursor  of  Shakespeare.  He  died  prema- 
turely, by  violence,  at  twenty-nine,  but  he  had  then  already, 
by  perforojance,  proved  himself  a  genius  of  sucli  power  as 
to  make  it  not  presumptuous  for  us  to  say  that  Sliakespeare 
would  have  had  a  fellow,  had  Marlowe  lived.  Marlowe 
wrote  a  great  play,  entitled  Faustus,  on  the  same  sub- 
ject.    This   is   now,    together   with    Goethe's   Faust   trans- 


Goethe.  207 

latetl,  published,  as  a  eoinpanion  piece  to  that,  in  one  of  the 
vohimes  of  "  Morley's  Uuiversal  Library."  It  may  thus  be 
bouglit  for  a  trifle,  and  readers  will  do  well  to  get  it  for  the 
sake  of  the  interesting  comparison  it  will  enable  them  to  make. 
The  English  handling  will  be  found  more  entertaining,  as  a 
piece  to  read  throughout,  than  the  German;  but  the  Ger- 
man, on  the  other  hand,  reaches  a  much  more  exciting  pitch 
of  tragedy  at  the  close.  The  Englishman's  work  is  as  clear 
as  light,  and  the  progress  is  straightforward  from  the  start- 
ing-point to  the  goal.  The  German's  work  plunges  you  not 
seldom  into  cloud,  and  the  path  you  follow  winds,  digresses, 
and  delays.  The  difference  between  these  two  productions 
answers  to  the  difference  between  the  two  national  types  of 
genius.  Goethe  evidently  is  deep  in  debt  to  Marlowe,  whose 
play  he,  in  fact,  at  one  time  seriously  thought  of  translating 
into  German. 

Both  Marlowe  and  Goethe  make  their  hero  Faustus  a 
laborious  student  who  has  drained  dry  the  sources  of  satis- 
faction to  the  mind  found  in  the  various  ordinary  depart- 
ments of  human  knowledge.  Wearied  and  worried,  but  un- 
sated,  the  voracious  student  turns  to  magic  lore.  The  result 
is  that  Mephistophilis  (so  Marlowe,  but  Goethe  spells  "  Meph- 
isto]>heles ")  aj^pears  in  answer  to  incantation,  and  a  com- 
pact is  settled  by  him  with  Faust  binding  the  man  to  surren- 
der himself  in  the  end  to  the  devil,  and  reciprocally  binding 
the  devil  to  be  at  the  man's  command  meantime.  So  far  the 
two  i^oets  coincide  with  each  other,  and,  we  believe,  with 
the  legend.  But  whereas  Marlowe  has  a  definite  limit  of 
time  fixed — twenty-four  years — for  Mephistophilis's  service 
to  Faust,  Goethe,  more  subtly,  has  Faust  agree  to  be  the 
devil's  at  any  moment  whatsoever,  at  whicli  he,  Faust,  shall 
be  brought  to  the  point  of  saying,  "  There,  now,  this  is  so 
good  that  I  should  like  to  have  it  indetinitely  continue." 

Goethe  had  his  Faust  on  the  stocks  no  less  than  sixty 
years  before  it  was  finally  dismissed  as  a  finished  work;  he 
began  it  at  twenty  years  of  age,  and  he  did  not  round  it  to 
completion  till  withlU  about  a  year  of  Uii^  death.     There  la 


208  Classic  German  Course  in  ^English. 


probably  no  parallel  in  literary  history  to  this  long  term  of 
labor  on  a  single  work — if  single  work  be,  indeed,  the  Faust 
of  Goethe,  which  exists  in  two  parts  so  different  from  one 
another  that  had  they  belonged  to  a  period  of  time  as  remote 
as  that  of  the  Iliad,  Wolf,  iconoclast  to  Homer,  would  have 
found  it  easy  to  frame,  from  internal  evidence,  a  quite  irref- 
ragable argument  against  identity  of  authorship  for  them. 
The  *'  Second  Part  "  of  Goethe's  Faust  is  generally  conceded 
to  be  a  "  land  of  darkness  as  darkness  itself."  When  the 
Faust  is  spoken  of,  you  may  safely,  as  a  rule,  assume  it  to 
be  the  "  First  Part "  only  that  is  meant.  We  shall  limit 
ourselves  here  strictly  to  the  First  Part. 

Critical  students  of  the  Faust  are  all  forced  to  admit  that 
the  work  is  wanting  in  such  perfect  fusion  of  parts  into 
unity  as  might  have  been  looked  for  had  it  been  written  at 
one  heat,  long-continued,  of  the  imagination,  instead  of  being 
composed,  as  it  was,  in  fragments,  to  be,  Avith  much  after 
beating  on  the  anvil,  welded  into  one.  Goethe  was,  funda- 
mentally, rather  an  artist  than  a  poet.  But  Goethe's  art  was 
not  equal  to  the  task  of  making  a  whole  great  poem  of  the 
Faust.  Mr.  Emerson,  in  his  Rejyresentatice  Men,  showed 
fine  instinct  in  having  Shakespeare,  rather  than  Goethe,  stand 
foi-  "  the  Poet."  Goethe  he  made  stand  for  "  the  Writer." 
Mr.  Hermann  Grimm's  courage  is  greater,  or  his  taste  less 
sure.  Emboldened  perhaps  by  the  late  step  to  the  front 
which  Germany  as  a  nation  has  taken,  this  critical  biogra- 
pher of  Goethe  claims  for  his  idol  the  solitary  first  place, 
without  fellow,  among  the  poets  of  all  nations  and  of  all 
times.  We  quote  Professor  Grimm's  words.  He  is,  with 
confident  prediction,  speaking  of  the  future  of  the  Faust: 

This  career  of  this  greatest  work  of  the  greatest  poet  of  all  nations  aii'i 
times  has  just  begun,  and  only  the  leading  steps  have  been  taken  towaid 
bringing  to  ligiit  tlie  value  of  its  contents. 

There  is  a  confession  of  faith  for  you  !  The  master  him- 
self was  contented  with  less  tribute  than  the  disciple  is  eager 
to  pay.  Goethe  intimated  that  it  was  as  absurd  to  equal  him 
with  Shakespeare  as  it  was  to  equal  Tieck  with  him.     Surely 


Goethe.  209 

the  god  herein  was  as  mnch  wiser,  as  lie  was  more  modest, 
than  his  worsliiper.  Mr.  Hermann  Grimm's  work,  entitled 
Life  and  Times  of  Goethe,  has  been  admirably  translated 
by  an  American  lady,  who,  in  a  prefatory  note,  speaks  of 
Goethe  as  "  at  once  the  most  real,  as  well  as  the  most  ideal, 
)na)i  and  poet  that  ever  lived."  This  language  does  not 
over-express  the  sentiment  concerning  Goethe  that  is  tend- 
ing to  establish  itself  as  one  of  the  unquestionable  postulates 
of  literary  criticism.  The  connection  between  character  and 
genius  is  vital.  It  is  vivisection  to  sever  one  from  the  other. 
"  Ma)i  and  poet "  are  indissolubly  joined.  Like  man,  like 
poet ;  also,  like  poet,  like  man.  Dr.  Hedge  virtually  con- 
fesses this  in  his  avowed  willingness  to.  argue  from  the  great- 
ness of  the  poet  to  the  goodness  of  the  man,  in  the  case  of 
Goethe.  Indeed,  he  makes  his  formula  general.  He  says : 
"  I  do  not  envy  the  mental  condition  of  those  who  can  rest  in 
the  belief  that  a  really  great  poet  can  be  a  bad  man."  Such  a 
mode  of  establishing  moral  excellence  for  Goethe  will  not  be 
satisfactory  to  all.  Some  will  still  inquire,  "  How  did  Goethe 
behave  himself?"  At  any  rate,  our  readers  will  see  thut  it 
behooved  their  author  to  do  as  he  has  done,  namely,  show 
them  Goethe  the  man  while  showing  them  Goethe  the  poet. 
And  at  no  other  time  is  knowledge  of  Goethe's  character, 
in  connection  with  knowledge  of  his  genius,  more  necessary 
than  when  one  is  seeking  to  form  a  just  estimate  of  the 
Fd.ust. 

Of  the  Faust  of  Goethe,  as  a  whole,  it  must  be  said  that 
it  is  dull  reading,  very  dull  reading,  to  the  average  English- 
speaker.  That  episode  in  it,  however,  which  at  last  swal- 
lows up  the  play,  is  interesting;  we  refer  to  the  episode  of 
Margaret  or  Gretchen.  Interesting  this  is,  exciting  even 
atid  ])()werful;  but  disagreeabl}^  as  well  as  painfully,  so. 
Margaret  is  a  young  girl — "  past  fourteen,"  as  Faust  is  made, 
with  repulsive  arithmetic,  to  say — whom  that  gentleman,  a 
"(loctor"  of  mature  age,  seduces  from  virtue.  About  the 
character  and  the  fate  of  Margaret  centres  whatever  of 
jjopular  human  interest  the  poem  ])rovides, 


210  Clftssic  German  Course  in  English. 

It  is  fit  to  the  patch-work  poetic  art  exemplified  in  the 
Faust  that  tlie  drama  should  be  introduced  by  two  prologues. 
A  "  Dedication  "  also  was  finally  prefixed.  One  of  the  two 
prologues  is  sufficiently  mundane;  but  the  other,  the  second, 
is  styled  the  "  Prologue  in  Heaven."  The  idea  of  this  latter 
is  suggested  by  the  opening  of  Job.  A  feature  in  it,  how- 
ever, that  is  not  of  Job,  is  the  song  of  three  archangels  who 
chant  the  praises  of  God.  We  give  this,  in  the  rendering  of 
Mr.  C.  T.  Brooks,  whose  translation  of  the  Faust  was  the  first 
to  reproduce  in  English  all  the  diversified  metres  of  the  orig- 
inal. Mr.  Bayard  Taylor  followed  Mr.  Brooks,  and  did  the 
same  work  over  again,  with  less  scholarsliip  and  with  less 
felicity.  The  poet  Shelley  rendered  this  prologue  well,  but 
on  the  whole  not  so  well  as  Mr.  Brooks  did  it  after  him. 
Faust  has  been  translated  into  English  not  less,  we  suppose, 
than  fifty  times.  Miss  Anna  Swanwick  has  produced  per- 
haps the  most  entirely  pleasing  version  of  all. 

Here,  then,  is  the  song  of  the  three  archangels,  according 
to  j\[r.  Brooks: 

Raphael.  Tlie  sun,  in  ancient  wise,  is  soimding, 

With  brotber-splieres,  in  rival  song; 
And,  liis  appointed  journej'  rounding, 

Witli  tluinderous  movement  rolls  along. 
His  look,  new  strength  to  angels  lending. 

No  creature  fathom  can  for  aye ; 
Tlie  lofty  works,  past  comprehending. 

Stand  lordly,  as  on  time's  first  day. 
Gabriel.  And  swift,  with  wondrous  swiftness  fleeting, 

The  pomp  of  earth  turns  round  and  round, 
The  glow  of  Eden  alternating 

With  shuddering  midnight's  gloom  profound  ; 
Up  o'er  the  rocks  the  foaming  ocean 

Heaves  from  its  old,  primeval  bed, 
And  rocks  and  seas,  with  endless  motion, 

On  in  the  spheral  sweep  are  sped. 
Michael.  And  tempests  roar,  glad  warfare  waging, 

From  sea  to  land,  from  land  to  sea. 
And  bind  round  all,  amidst  their  raging, 

A  chain  of  giant  energj'. 


Goethe.  211 

There,  lurid  desolation,  blazing, 

Foreruns  the  vollej'ed  thunder's  way: 
Yet,  Lord,  thy  messengers  are  praising 

The  mild  procession  of  thy  day. 
All  Tliree.  The  sight  new  strength  to  angels  lendeth, 

For  none  thy  being  ftxthom  may. 
The  works  no  angel  comprehendeth 

Stand  lordly  as  on  time's  first  day. 

The  effect  of  ihe  versification  is  here  remarkably  re-echoed 
from  tlie  German  original.  To  a  listening  ear  not  accus- 
tomed to  either  German  or  English,  the  sound,  we  imagine, 
would  seem  much  the  same  for  Goethe  and  for  Brooks. 
Still,  Goethe's  stanzas  are,  no  doubt,  far  finer  to  the  Ger- 
man, than  Brooks's  are  to  the  Englishman  or  tlie  American. 
Klopstock  was  before  Goethe  in  conceiving  the  course  of  the 
sun  as  accomplished  with  "thunder-sound."  To  us,  the  ac- 
companiment of  noise  seems  to  degrade,  instead  of  elevating, 
the  idea  of  the  motion  of  celestial  bodies.  It  is,  however, 
perhaps  the  pagan  notion  of  a  sun-chariot  driven  with  whirl 
and  rumble  of  wheels,  that  Goethe  incongruously  mixes  with 
the  Christian  representation  of  God  and  archangels.  What 
motion  it  is  of  the  sun  to  which  Goethe  refers,  we  find  it  hard 
to  determine.  If  the  apparent  motion,  diurnal  or  annual,  of 
the  sun  about  the  earth — but  we  must  not  stay  to  criticise. 
Let  leisurely  and  curious  readers  study  the  conception,  or 
coiuteptions,  involved  in  this  famous  song  of  the  archangels, 
and  see  if  they  can  successfully  adjust  and  reconcile  the  dif- 
ferent parts  one  to  another.  Is  there  a  point  of  view,  for 
the  archangels  to  be  supposed  occupying,  that  will  yield  the 
])roponion  and  perspective  of  vision  attributed  by  the  poet? 
Or,  is  there,  in  short,  nothing  left  of  the  song,  when  fairly 
analyzed,  but  a  caput  mortunm  of  ringing  rhyme  and 
rhythm  ?  Still,  if  Goethe  is  ever  sublime,  as  Milton  has 
taught  ns  to  know  sublimity,  it  is  in  this  song  of  the  arch- 
angels that  he  is  so.     ]5ut  Urania  was  not  Goethe's  muse. 

The  rest  of  the  "Prologue  in  Heaven"  is  irredeemably 
jMoCane.  The  vindication  attempted,  namely,  that  it  is  not 
more  audaciously   free  than  the  beginning  of    Job,  breaks 


212  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

down  under  the  Aveight  of  the  sentiment  l)las{)hemouisly  im- 
puted by  Goethe  to  God,  in  these  words  addressed  by  God  to 
Mephistopheles:  "The  like  of  thee  I  never  yet  did  hate;  of 
all  spirits  that  deny,  the  scoffing  scamp  is  the  one  to  me 
least  offensive,"  etc.  Goethe,  no  doubt,  meant  here  to  keep 
just  within  bounds;  but  it  was  a  case  in  which  Mephistophe- 
les, urging  from  behind,  pricked  Faust  resistlessly  forward 
to  take  the  step  beyond.  This  figurative  mode  of  speaking 
is  justified  by  the  fact  that  Faust  is  really  Goethe  himself, 
Goethe  said  : 

The  marionette  [puppet]  fable  of  Faust  murmured  with  many  voices  in 
my  soul.  I,  too,  had  wandered  into  ever}'^  department  of  knowledge,  and 
had  returned  early  enough  satisfied  with  the  vanity  of  science.  And  life 
too  I  had  tried  under  various  aspects,  and  always  came  back  sorrowing 
and  unsatisfied. 

The  F'aust  is  a  highly  composite  piece  of  literary  art. 
The  most  diverse  and  heterogeneous  materials,  Avrought  into 
the  most  diverse  and  heterogeneous  forms,  are  built  into  the 
edifice.  We  shall  not  conceal  our  own  confident  opinion 
that  the  time  will  come  when  men  will  wonder  that  ever 
such  a  heteroclite  production  imposed  itself  on  several  gen- 
erations of  readers,  or  rather  of  critics,  as  a  true  triumph  of 
genius  and  of  art.  The  atmosphei'e  of  a  mocking  worldly 
wisdom  pervades  the  work.  There  are  reliefs  in  it  of  beauty 
and  of  pathos;  there  are  passages  of  power.  But  if  we 
were  challenged  to  produce  from  the  Faust  a  single  lofty  or 
noble  sentiment,  one  generous  expression,  such  as  "  makes  a 
man  feel  strong  in  speaking  truth,"  we  should  be  obliged  to 
confess  ourselves  at  a  loss.  The  very  versification — with 
brief  intervals,  and  rare,  of  exception,  moves  as  if  animated, 
or  galvanized  rather — with  mockery.  Masterly,  no  doubt, 
the  versification  is ;  and  its  masterliness  is  in  nothing  else 
more  strikingly  felt  than  in  the  jerky  and  jiggish  responsive- 
ness it  shows  to  the  jeering  spirit  it  prevailingly  has  to  express. 
Faust  is  a  piece  of  almost  pure  diablerie  from  beginning  to 
end.  By  authoritative  critics  it  is  considered  a  great  poem. 
To  us  it  seems  far  more  like  an  ironical  retribution  which  the 


Ooethe.  213 

outraged  spirit  of  truth  and  nobleness  wreaked,  in  Goethe's 
ease,  on  seltish  self-culture,  by  simply  leaving  that  unworthy 
ideal  of  life  wholly  to  itself — and  to  the  devil — to  work  out 
its  own  legitimate  result. 

We  feel  no  disposition  to  prove  our  point,  even  partially, 
by  citations.  On  the  contrary,  we  pass  over  what  would 
tend  to  prove  it,  and  select  instead  our  specimens  from  the 
small  best  part  of  the  Faust. 

Here  is  Faust's  first  meeting  with  Margaret,  Mephistoph- 
eles  has  previously  primed  and  preened  his  man  to  fall  in 
love  with  the  child  and  to  win  her  love  for  him: 

A  Street. 
Faust.     Margaret  [passing  over]. 
Faust   My  fair  young  lady,  will  it  offend  her  1 

If  I  offer  my  arm  and  escort  to  lend  her? 
Margaret.  Am  neither  lady,  nor  yet  am  fair  I 

Can  find  my  way  home  without  any  one's  care. 
\_Disengages  herself  and  exit.'] 
Faust.   By  heavens,  but  then  the  child  is  fair ! 
I've  never  seen  the  like,  I  swear. 
So  modest  is  she  and  so  pure, 
And  somewhat  saucy,  too,  to  be  sure. 
The  light  of  the  cheek,  the  lip's  red  bloom, 
I  shall  never  forget  to  the  day  of  doom! 
How  she  cast  down  her  lovely  eyes, 
Deep  in  my  soul  imprinted  lies; 
How  she  spoke  up,  so  curt  and  tart, 
Ah,  that  went  right  to  my  ravished  heart! 

The  details  that  follow  will  not  bear  reproducing.  Faust 
goes,  conducted  by  Mephistopheles,  to  Margai'et's  bed-cham- 
ber (she  absent),  there  to  pasture  his  prurient  imagination 
on  what  he  sees.  A  little  mawkish  sentiment,  as  if  of 
reaction  on  his  part  from  evil  intent,  uttered  by  Faust,  serves 
only  to  make  the  whole  thing  more  insufferably  nauseous. 
In  another  scene,  Margaret  is  sliown  us  singing  a  song  which 
Goethe,  having  it  already  on  hand,  thriftily  worked  into  his 
play,  about  the  "King  of  Thule" — a  song  well  enough  in  its 
way,  not  a  very  admirable  way,  but  in  obvious  ill  kcci)ing  as 


214 


Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


sung  by  sweet,  innocent,  young  Margaret ;  who,  however — 
sweet  and  innocent,  though  evidently  the  author  purjjosed  to 
have  us  regard  her  as  being — is,  curiously  enough,  made  by 
him  to  accuse  her  own  mother  of  overworking  her  through 
stinginess,  and  this  to  her  stranger  lover  ! 

More  in  character,  and  more  nearly  worthy,  though  far 
from  worthy,  of  its  fame,  is  Margaret's  song  at  the  spinning- 
wheel.  In  this,  the  maiden  confesses  her  love — by  the  way,  a 
disagreeably  precocious,  ungrounded,  and  ill-assorted  love — 
for  Doctor  Faust.    Here  is  the  sono^ — in  Brooks's  translation: 


My  lieart  is  heavy, 
My  peace  is  o'er; 
I  never — all  I  never — 
Sliall  find  it  more. 

While  him  I  crave, 
Each  place  is  the  grave ; 
The  world  is  all 
Turned  into  gall. 

My  wretched  brain 
Has  lost  its  wits, 
My  wretched  sense 
Is  all  in  bits. 

My  heart  is  heavy, 
My  peace  is  o'er ; 
T  never — ah!  never — 
Shall  fiud  it  more. 

Him  only  to  greet,  I 
The  street  look  down ; 
Him  only  to  meet,  I 
Roam  through  town. 

His  lofty  step, 


His  noble  heiglit, 

His  smile  of  sweetness, 

His  eye  of  might. 

His  words  of  magic, 
Breathing  bliss. 
His  hand's  warm  pressure, 
And,  ah !  his  kiss. 

My  heart  is  heavy. 
My  peace  is  o'er ; 
I  never — ah  I  never — 
Shall  fiud  it  more. 

My  bosom  yearns 
To  behold  him  again. 
Ah,  could  I  fiud  him. 
That  best  of  men  I 
I'd  tell  liini  then 
How  I  did  miss  him, 
And  kiss  him 
As  mucli  as  I  could. 
Die  on  his  kisses 
I  surely  should ! 


The  fatal  objection  to  this  song,  as  sung,  by  such  a  sweet- 
heart, of  such  a  lover,  is  that  it  sings  a  sentiment  which,  sup- 
posed, on  the  one  hand,  to  arise  under  purely  natural  conditions, 
is  without  warranting  motive — exercised  by  a  mere  child 
toward  a  mature  i:)rig  like  Faust — or,  on  the  other  hand, 
supposed  to  arise  under  conditions  of  diabolic  interference, 
loses  its  human  interest  and  becomes  either  a  tediously  im- 
probable, or  a  positively  repulsive,  conception.     In  all  the 


Goethe.  215 

artistic  accidents  of  form,  Goethe  here,  as  is  usual  with  him 
in  such  versifications,  is  triurapliant.  Obviously,  in  describ- 
ing for  Margaret  the  personal  appearance  of  lier  lover,  the 
poet  drew  from  his  looking-glass.  He  "saw  his  own  figure." 
The  effect  of  egotism  forces  itself  irresistibly  into  the  song. 

The  end,  of  course,  is  I'uin  for  the  child.  Her  brother, 
Valentine,  Faust  kills  in  a  duel — a  duel  occasioned  by  the 
young  fellow's  taking  up  a  championship  for  his  sister.  Mar- 
garet's mother  dies  from  a  deadly  potion  given  her  by  her 
daughter,  to  make  her  sleep  while  Faust  and  his  victim  are 
meeting  each  other.  The  child  did  not  inean  harm  to  her 
mother;  Faust  sujjplied  her  with  the  jjotion.  Margaret  her- 
self, her  wits  crazed,  drowns  her  babe,  and  is  imprisoned,  to 
die  by  being  beheaded.  The  prison  scene  between  the  girl 
and  her  seducer  is  celebrated.  It  is  the  most  really  moving 
thing  that  Goethe  ever  wrote.  Here  it  is  condensed  from 
Brooks's  version.  (We  ought  to  say  that,  to  make  the  variety 
of  form  in  his  work  complete,  Goethe  has  a  short  prose  scene 
preceding  this.)  Faust,  having  through  Mephistopheles 
secured  the  gaoler's  keys,  enters  the  dungeon  to  rescue  Mar- 
garet. Margaret  mistakes  him  for  the  executioner."  Now 
Goethe: 

Margaret  [burying  herself  in  hed\     Woe  I  woe  I 
They  come.     0  death  of  bitterness  I 
Faust  [50/%].    Hush  1  hush!    I  come  to  free  thee;  thou  art  dreaming. 
Margaret  [2>rostrating  herself  before  him].     Art  thou  a  man?  then  feel 
for  my  distress. 
Faust.  Thou'lt  wake  tlie  guards  with  thy  loud  screaming ! 
[Zfe  seizes  the  chains  to  unlock  them.] 
Margaret  [on  Iter  knees].     Headsman,  who's  given  Ihce  this  right 
O'er  me,  this  power  ! 
Thou  com'st  for  me  at  dead  of  night; 
In  pity  spare  me,  one  short  hour  ! 
Will 't  not  be  time  wlien  matin  bell  has  rung  ? 

\_She  stands  u}^.] 
Ah,  I  am  yet  so  young,  so  young! 
And  death  pursuing  1 

Fair  was  I,  too,  and  tliat  was  my  undoing. 
M}'  love  was  near,  far  is  he  now  ! 


216  Classic  Genncm   Course  in  English. 

Torn  is  the  wreath,  the  scattered  flowers  lie  low. 

But  fir.st  I'd  mirse  my  child — do  not  prevent  me. 

I  hugged  it  tiirough  the  black  night  hour; 

They  took  it  from  me  to  torment  me, 

And  now  tliey  say  I  killed  the  pretty  flower. 

I  shall  never  be  happy  again,  I  know. 

They  sing  vile  songs  at  me!     'Tis  bad  in  them  to  do  iti 

There's  an  old  tale  that  ends  just  so. 

Who  gave  that  meaning  to  it? 
Faust  {^prostrates  himself].     A  lover  at  tiiy  feet  is  bending, 

Thy  bonds  of  miseiy  would  be  rending. 
Margaret  [flings  herself  beside  liim^.     0  let  ns  kneel,  the  saints  lor  aia 
invoking ! 

See  !  'neath  tiie  threshold  smoking, 

Fire-breathing, 

Hell  is  seething! 

There  prowling. 

And  grim  under  cover, 

Satan  is  howling  1 
Faust  [cdoud],     Margery!     Margery! 
Margaret  [listening'].     Tliat  was  the  voice  of  my  lover! 
[She  S2>ri7igs  uj:).     The  chains  fall  off.] 

Where  is  he?     Wliere?     He  calls.     I  hear  him. 

I'm  free!     Who  hinders?     I  will  be  near  him. 

I'll  fly  to  his  neck  I     I'll  hold  him  ! 

To  my  bosom  I'll  enfold  him ! 

He  stood  on  the  threshold — called  Margery  plainly  1 

Hell's  howling  and  clattering  to  drown  it  sought  vainly — 

Through  the   devilish,  grim  scoffs   that  might   turn   one  to 
stone, 

I  caught  the  sweet,  loving,  enrapturing  tone. 
Faust.  'Tis  1 1 
Margaret.  'Tis  thou  !  0  say  it  once  again  ! 
[Clasping  again.] 

'Tis  he!    'tis  he!  Where  now  is  all  my  pain? 

And  where  tlie  dungeon's  anguish  ?     Joy-giver ! 

'Tis  thou  I     And  come  to  deliver  I 

I  am  delivered  ! 

Again  before  me  lies  the  street. 

Where  for  the  first  time  thou  and  I  did  meet ; 

And  the  garden-bower, 

Where  we  spent  that  evening  hour. 


Goethe,  217 

/T;«s-<  [(njiiuj  to  draw  Iier  awai/].  Come!  Come  with  me  I 
Miryartt.  0  tarry  I 

I  tarry  so  gladly  where  thou  tarriest. 

[Caitiviuij  liiiii.]  ^ 

Faust.  Hurry  I  ^ 

Unless  tlioii  luirriest, 

Bitterly  we  both  must  rue  it. 
Margartt.  Kiss  mel     Canst  uo  more  do  it? 

So  short  an  absence,  love,  as  this, 

And  forgot  how  to  kiss  ? 

What  saddens  me  so  as  1  hang  about  thy  neck  ? 

When  ouce,  in  thy  words,  th}'  looks,  such  a  heaven  of  blisses 

Came  o'er  me,  I  thought  my  heart  would  break, 

And  it  seemed  as  if  thou  wouldest  smother  me  with  kisses. 

Kiss  thou  me! 

P^lse  I  kiss  thee  ! 

[<S/te  embraces  liim.] 

Woe !  woe  !  thy  lips  are  cold, 

Stone  dumb. 

Wiiere's  thy  love  left  ? 

0 !  I'm  bereft  1 

Who  robbed  me? 

[She  turns  from  him.'] 
Faust.  0  come! 

Take  courage,  my  darling!     Let  us  go; 

T  clasp  thee  with  unutterable  glow; 

But  follow  me!     For  this  alone  I  plead  ! 
Margaret  [ttcrning  to  himl.     Is  it  then  thou  ? 

And  is  it  thou  indeed  ? 
Faust.   'Tis  I !     Come,  follow  me  I 
Margaret.  Thou  break'st  my  chain, 

And  tak'st  me  to  thy  breast  again  ! 

How  comes  it,  then,  that  thou  art  not  afraid  of  me? 

And  dost  thou  know,  my  friend,  who  'tis  iliou  settest  free? 
Faust.  Come!  come!  The  night  is  on  the  wane. 
Margaret.  Woe!  woe!     My  mother  I've  slain ! 

Have  drowned  the  babe  of  mine! 

Was  it  not  sent  to  be  mine  and  thine? 

Tiiine,  too — 'tis  thou!     Scarce  true  doth  it  seem. 

Give  me  thy  hand !     'Tis  not  a  dream ! 

Thy  blessed  hand!     But  ah  !  there's  dampness  here! 

Go,  wipe  it  off!     I  fear 

There's  lilood  thereon. 

Ah,  God !   what  hast  thou  done  ! 
10 


218  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Put  up  thy  sword  agaiu ; 
I  pray  thee,  dol 
Faust.  The  past  is  past — there  leave  it  then; 
^  Thou  Ivill'st  me  too  ! 

Margartt.  No,  thou  must  longer  tarry  1 

I'll  tell  thee  how  each  thou  sliult  bury; 

The  places  of  sorrow 

Make  ready  to-morrow; 

Must  give  the  best  place  to  my  mother, 

The  very  next  to  my  brother, 

Me  a  little  aside. 

But  malie  not  the  space  too  wide! 

And  on  my  right  breast  let  the  little  one  he. 

No  one  else  will  be  sleeping  by  me. 

Once,  to  feel  thy  heart  beat  nigh  me, 

0,  'twas  a  precious,  a  tender  joy  ! 

But  I  shall  have  it  no  more — no,  never! 


Make  haste !  make  haste  I 
No  time  to  waste  I 
Save  thy  poor  child ! 
Quick  1  follow  the  edge 
Of  the  rushing  rill. 
Over  the  bridge 
And  by  the  mill, 
Tlien  into  the  woods  beyond 
On  the  left  where  lies  the  plank 
Over  the  pond. 
Seize  hold  of  it  quick  1 
To  rise  'tis  trying. 
It  struggles  still  I 
Eescue  1  rescue  I 
Faust.  Bethink  thj^self,  pray  ! 

A  single  step  amd  thou  art  Iree! 
Margaret.  Would  we  were  by  the  mountains !     See ! 
There  sits  my  mother  on  a  stone, 
The  sight  on  my  brain  is  preying ! 
There  sits  my  mother  on  a  stone, 
And  her  head  is  constantly  swaying; 
She  beckons  not,  nods  not,  her  head  falls  o'er; 
So  long  she's  been  sleeping,  she'll  wake  no  more. 
She  slept  that  we  miglit  take  pleasure. 
O  that  was  blfe-i  without  measure  ! 


Goethe.  219 

Faust.  Since  neilher  reason  nor  prayer  thou  hearest, 

I  must  venture  by  force  to  take  thee,  dearest. 
Margaret.  Let  go  1     No  violence  will  I  bear  1 

Take  not  such  a  murderous  hold  of  lue  I  ^ 

I  once  did  all  I  could  to  gratify  thee. 
Faust.  The  day  is  breaking!     Dearest!  dearest  I 
Margaret.  Day  I     Ay,  it  is  day  !  the  last  great  day  breaks  in ! 

My  wedding-day  it  should  have  been ! 

Tell  no  one  thou  hast  been  with  Marger}' ! 

Alas  for  my  garland!     Tlie  hour's  advancing  1 

Eetreat  is  in  vain ! 

We  meet  again, 

But  not  at  the  dancing. 

The  multitude  presses,  no  word  is  spoke. 

Square,  streets,  all  places — 

A  sea  of  faces — 

The  bell  is  tolling,  the  staff  is  broke. 

How  they  seize  me  and  bind  me  I 

They  hurry  me  off  to  the  bloody  block. 

Faust.  0  had  I  ne"er  been  born  ! 

Mtph.  [ap'pears  without}.     Up!    or  Ihou'rt  lost!     The  mora  fiuslies 
the  sky. 
Idle  delaying!     Praying  and  playing! 
My  horses  are  neigliing, 
They  shudder  and  snort  for  the  bound. 
Margaret.  "What's  that  comes  up  from  the  ground  ? 
He!     He!     AvauntI  that  face! 
"What  will  he  in  the  sacred  place  ? 
He  seeks  me  ! 
Faust.  Thou  shalt  live  ! 
Margaret.  Great  God  in  heaven! 

Unto  tliy  judgment  my  soul  have  T  given  ! 
Me2)h.  [to  Faust].     Come!  come!  or  in  the  lurch  I  leave  both  her  and 
tliee ! 
Margaret.  Thine  am  I,  Father!     Rescue  me! 
Ye  angels,  holy  bands,  attend  me ! 
And  camp  around  me  to  defend  me! 
Henry!     1  dread  to  look  on  thee. 
Meph.  She's  judged  ! 
Voice  \^from  ahove].  She's  saved  ! 
Mrph.  [to  Fausl\.     Come  tiiou  to  me. 

[  Vanishes  with  Fatist.] 
Voice  [from  within,  dijiiKj  aivuij].     Henr^M  Henry  1 


220  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

So  ends  the  Faust — the  Faust,  that  is  to  say,  as  it  stands 
without  that  afterthought  of  the  author,  the  Second  Part. 

What^e  have  given,  certainly  is  conceived  and  written  with 
power.  How — not  simply  by  imagination  born  in  the  soul 
of  the  poet,  but  through  experience  acquired  by  the  man  of 
the  world — Goethe  was  qualified  to  write  it,  one  does  not  like 
to  conjecture.  There  it  is,  however  produced  ;  it  is  far  from 
pleasing  poetry,  but  that  it  has  a  degree  of  passion  in  it  is,  we 
think,  beyond  gainsaying.  The  very  end  of  it  all,  however, 
seems  to  us  weak  and  unsatisfactory.  The  first  part  so  end- 
ing did  leave  a  kind  of  demand  for  a  second  part — to  sup- 
ply a  completion  that  was  lacking.  But  the  completion  that 
was  lacking,  the  second  part  actually  added  does  not  sup- 
ply ;  the  sense  of  want  remains.  Faust,  in  the  second  part, 
becomes  still  more  obviously  Goethe — and  still  more  obvi- 
ously an  irredeemable  egotist.  He  marries  Helen,  her  of 
Troy,  revived  !  This  strange  phantasmagoric  contrivance 
of  the  author's  seems  to  have  been  intended  as  an  allegory 
vaguely  shadowing  forth  the  idea  that  Goethe  united  in 
himself  the  romanticism  of  the  middle  ages  with  the  classic- 
ism of  antiquity. 

We  have  expressed  and  implied  a  low  aesthetic  and  ethical 
estimate  of  the  Faust.  Some  readers  may  naturally  question 
with  tiiemselves:  "Has  not  our  author  been  unduly  in- 
fluenced by  Philistine  or  Puritan  narrowness?  Has  he  ca- 
pacity enough  of  liberal  comprehension  to  judge  justly  the 
masterpiece  of  a  genius  like  Goethe  ?  "  We  may  properly, 
therefore,  support  ourselves  by  citing  two  authorities  not 
to  be  suspected  of  Hebraistic  perverseness. 

Coleridge,  under  the  immediate  imminency  of  Goethe's 
living  renown,  spoke  severely  as  follows  (he  had  been  urged 
to  translate  the  Faust) : 

"  I  debated  with  myself  whether  it  became  my  moral  char- 
acter to  render  into  English — and  so  far,  certainly,  lend  my 
countenance  to — language,  much  of  which  I  thought  vulgar, 
licentious,  and  blasphemous.  I  need  not  tell  you  that  I  never 
put  pen  to  paper  as  a  translator  to  Faust." 


Goethe.  221 

Emerson,  while  living,  was  reported  in  the  newspapers  as 
expressing  distaste  for  the  Faust  on  the  ground  of  its  moral 
offensiveness. 

Is  the  Faust,  then,  not  a  great  poem?  To  pronounce  it,  as 
we  do,  the  unworthy  work  of  a  great  poet,  honors  Goethe 
more.  A  great  poet,  then,  Goethe  was  '?  One  who  might 
liave  been  a  great  poet,  let  us,  correcting  ourselves,  rather 
say.  Goethe  needed  only  to  be  a  great  man;  and  it  was  good- 
ness that  chiefly  lacked  to  greatness  in  Q'oethe.  He  loved 
not  wisely  but  too  well — himself.  His  life  was  a  reduction 
to  absurdity  of  the  idea  of  self-cultui'e  as  a  proper  supreme 
aim  of  human  endeavor.  The  "Pyramid  of  his  Beuig"  was  a 
stately  structure,  but  it  was  founded  on  sand.  Faust  had 
been  overreached  by  Mephistopheles. 


X. 

SCHILLER. 
1759-1805. 


Few  men  probably  ever  have  had  a  hungrier  "  avidity  of 
fame  "  than  that  which  all  his  life  long  stung  the  snul  of  Fried- 
rich  Schiller.  Few,  again,  are  the  men  whose  posthumous 
satisfaction  of  desire  has  been  as  ample  as  his.  To  be  perma- 
nently the  favorite  poet  of  a  gi'eat  historic  nation,  a  nation 
constantly  growing  greater,  is  surely  an  overflowing  reward 
of  endeavor  ;  and  this  reward  is  Schiller's.  But  his  reward, 
large  as  it  is,  is  not  larger  than  was  his  endeavor.  He  died 
prematurely  at  forty-flve,  almost  literally  self-consumed  with 
the  ardors  of  his  own  inextinguishable  spirit. 

Johann  Christoph  Friedrich  von  Scliiller  was  born  the  sou 
of  a  gardener.  His  father  was  the  highly  loyal  servant  of  a 
German  duke,  the  Duke  of  Wiirtemberg.  Tliis  duke  patron- 
ized the  elder  Schiller,  together  with  the  hopeful  boy,  Fried- 
rich — in  a  manner  much  to  the  distaste  and  discomfort  of  the 
latter.     He  had  founded  a  military  academy;  and  in  this  he 


222  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

graciously  offered  gratuitous  education  for  the  lad.  Such  an 
offer  from  such  a  source  was  equivalent  to  a  mandate,  and  it 
had  to  be  accepted.  Young  Schiller  was,  therefore,  duly 
immured  in  the  ducal  military  school,  and  there  subjected  to 
the  cast-iron  regimen  which  then  usually  prevailed  in  estab- 
lishments of  the  sort.  The  eager  bird  beat  hard  against  the 
bars  of  his  cage — in  vain.  Some  eight  dreary  years  were 
thus  passed,  and  the  boy  became  a  man  of  twenty-one,  when, 
having  previously  tried  and  abandoned  the  studj^  of  law  for 
a  profession,  he  took  unwilling  degree  as  army  surgeon. 

But  he  had  meantime  cultivated  literature  in  secret.  It  Avas 
pitiful,  the  starvation  diet  of  books  on  which  the  poor  young 
student  was  fain  to  feed  his  hungry  mind.  Out  of  these, 
and  out  of  his  own  soul,  with  experience  of  life  and  obser- 
vation of  life  so  narrow  and  so  small,  he  had  excogitated  a 
work  which  was  to  set  all  Germany  in  a  blaze.  His  first  draft 
of  this,  written  as  it  were  in  blood  and  fire,  he  finished  when 
he  was  nineteen  years  of  age.  It  Avas  not  till  two  years 
after  that  the  drama  referred  to.  The  Hobbers,  was  pub- 
lished. Two  years  again  elapsed,  and  this  play  was  put  upon 
the  stage  at  Mannheim.  The  youthful  author  went  clandes- 
tinely to  see  it,  and,  being  detected,  was  placed  under  military 
arrest  for  a  fortnight  in  consequence.  That  duke's  govern- 
ment was  watchfully  paternal.  All  German  conservatism 
was  shocked  by  The  Robbers.  One  functionary  solemnly  de- 
clared that  had  he  been  the  Supreme  Being,  and  had  he  fore- 
known that  the  world,  if  created,  would  have  The  Hobbers 
written  in  it,  he  should  never  have  created  the  world  !  But 
young  Germany  gave  a  great  leap  of  the  heart  in  response  to 
77i.e  Robbers. 

Fi'om  so  much  painstaking  patronage  on  the  part  of  his 
ducal  lord,  Schiller  was  ungrateful  enough  to  abscond. 
Taking  refuge,  under  a  feigned  name,  in  a  neighboring  prin- 
cipality, he  went  on  producing  plays  in  somewhat  the  same 
line  of  literary  art  with  The  Robbers. 

The  fugitive  young  author  soon  got  back  to  Mannheim. 
Here  he  found  employment  somewhat  to  his  taste,  in  connec- 


Schiller.  223 

tion  with  the  theatre.  This  was  for  a  short  time  only,  but 
the  experience  was  highly  useful  to  him  in  a  practical  way; 
it  helped  him  adapt  his  productions  to  the  actual  require- 
ments of  stage  representation.  He  could  henceforth  better 
write  plays  to  be  acted,  instead  of  plays  simply  to  be  read. 
Finding  at  Mannheim  no  satisfactory  settled  way  of  life, 
Schiller  wandered  to  Leipsic.  At  Leipsic  he  formed  that 
acquaintance  with  Korner  (father  of  the  poet)  which  was  to 
be  so  important  to  his  future  career.  Korner  proved  a  wise 
and  generous  friend  to  the  poor  and  struggling  poet.  He 
undertook,  out  of  his  own  pocket,  to  keep  Schiller  going  one 
whole  year,  without  the  poet's  distracting  himself  in  any  way 
to  earn  a  livelihood ;  Schiller  might  devote  his  energies  ex- 
clusively to  bringing  out  that  which  was  most  within  him  into 
literary  expression.  For  such  kindness  Schiller  had  nothing 
with  which  to  repay  his  friend,  except  gratitude — gratitude, 
and  a  share  in  his  own  confidently  expected  future  renown. 
These  commodities  were,  both  of  them,  lavishly  forthcoming. 
Witness  the  following  letter: 

Your  friendship  and  your  kindness  open  up  to  me  an  Elysium.  Through 
you,  my  beloved  Korner,  I  may  pcrliaps  yet  become  what  I  despaired  of 
ever  being.  As  my  powers  ripen,  so  will  my  hajipincss  increase,  and  near 
you,  through  you,  I  look  to  develop  them.  These  tears  that  here,  on  the 
threshold  of  my  new  career,  I  shed  in  gratitude,  in  honor,  to  you,  will  fall 
again  when  that  career  is  ended.  If  I  should  become  that  of  which  I  now 
dream,  who,  then,  happier  than  you  ?  .  .  .  Do  not  destroy  this  letter.  Ten 
years  hence  it  may  be  you  will  read  it  with  strange  emotion,  and  in  the 
grave  you  will  softly  slumber  thereon. 

Schiller,  with  all  his  genuine  scorn  of  the  mercenary  mo- 
tive, yet  was  a  thrifty  soul.  It  is  to  us  clear,  from  the 
Schiller-Korner  correspondence,  as  well  as  from  the  Schiller- 
(4oethe,  that  Schiller  was  always,  even  in  his  most  enthusiastic 
expressions,  likely  to  have  a  worldly-wise  eye  to  his  own 
advantage.  This  advantage,  however,  he  desired,  nobly  and 
jiurely,  for  the  sake  of  the  service  that  he  felt  himself  capa- 
ble, with  opportunity,  of  rendering  to  literature.  To  that 
cause  no  man  ever  yielded  himself  up  with  more  absolute, 
more  burning  devotion  than  did  Schiller.     What  he  enjoyed 


224  Classic  German  Course  in  Kn^jllsh. 

of  success  lie  fairly  earned  with  endeavor.  His  fame  lie 
bought  with  his  life. 

The  force  that  you  feel  throbbing  in  Schiller's  work  Avas 
not  wholly  a  healthy  natural  force.  It  was  pai'tly  artificial, 
fed  with  stimulation  as  well  as  with  food.  Schiller  drank 
strong  coffee,  and  drank  it  to  excess.  He  also  used  too  much 
wine.  Worse,  perhaps,  he  used  his  nights  for  labor  instead 
of  for  sleep.  Nor  was  this  all.  He  wrought  himself  up  with 
will  to  a  high  pitch  of  mental  excitement,  that  so  he  might 
write  with  power.  Standing  at  his  desk  to  write,  he  woidd 
frequently  meantime  declaim  aloud  with  fury  what  he  wrote, 
stamping  and  raving  like  a  pagan  prophet  of  old  in  order 
that  so  the  demon  of  poetic  prophecy  might  indeed  usurp  and 
possess  his  soul.  The  fuel  that  he  burned  for  his  fire  was 
thus  supplied  from  his  very  life.  No  wonder  that  a  flame 
forced  to  rage  so  fiercely  raged  itself  out  in  forty-five  years. 

The  Robbers,  Love  and  Intrir/ue,  Fiesco,  Don  Carlos, 
dramas  all  of  them,  with  a  prose  romance  entitled  the  Ghost- 
seer  had  already  been  produced  win  n,  in  1787,  Schiller  went 
by  invitation  to  Weimar.  But  the  hopes  with  which  he  Avent 
of  there  achieving  personal  relation  to  Goethe  were  destined 
yet  for  some  years  to  be  disappointed.  Not  without  bitter- 
ness, he  uttered  himself  to  Korner  on  this  defeat  of  desire. 
Here,  for  instance,  is  one  of  his  expressions: 

I  doubt  if  we  [Goethe  and  liiinsclf]  shall  ever  draw  verj^  near  to  each 
other.  .  .  .  His  world  is  not  mj'  world  ;  our  ideas  on  some  points  are  fun- 
damentally opposed. 

Under  the  influence,  perhaps,  of  disappointment  at  his  own 
reception,  he  looked  at  Goethe  with  cold  eyes,  and  saw  him 
as  follows  : 

His  appearance  considerably  lowered  the  idea  I  had  conceived  from 
hearsay  of  his  imposing  and  handsome  person.  He  is  of  middle  size,  and 
he  looks  and  walks  stifif.  His  counten;ince  is  not  open,  but  his  ej-e  is  very 
full  of  expression.  .  .  .  The  expression  of  his  countenance  is  serious,  at 
the  same  lime  that  it  is  benevolent  and  kind. 

But  a  little  uneasily,  in  recollection  of  the  various  things 
that  he  has  suffered  to  escape  him,  reflecting  on  Goethe,  or 


Schiller.  225 

revealing  his  own  disposition  to  envy  that  more  fortunate 
man,  he  writes  again  to  Korner  : 

I  cannot  help  laughing  wlien  I  think  over  all  I  have  written  to  you 
about  Goethe.  You  will  have  acquired  a  deep  insight  into  my  weak 
points,  and  have  inwardly  chuckled  at  nie  ;  but  let  it  be  so.  I  wish  you 
to  know  me  as  I  am.  Tiiis  man,  tlTis  Goethe,  is  in  my  way;  and  he 
reminds  me  so  often  liow  hard  fate  has  been  upon  me.  How  tenderly 
was  his  genius  nursed  by  fate,  and  liow  must  I  to  this  very  moment  still 
struggle ! 

Does  that  seem  querulous  ?  A  little  below  heroic  pitch, 
no  doubt  ;  but  Schiller  was  very  free  to  Korner.  Perhaps, 
too,  he  was  thriftily  not  unwilling  to  excite  Korner's  valua- 
ble sympathy  in  his  own  behalf.  One  cannot  help  feeling 
a  little  regret  to  lind  Schiller,  in  the  same  letter,  making  so 
hard-headed,  not  to  say  so  hard-hearted,  a  suggestion  of  the 
practical  sort  as  this  following  : 

If  yon  could  procure  me  within  a  year  a  wife  with  twelve  thousand 
dollars  (tlialers),  witli  whom  I  could  live  and  to  whom  I  could  become 
attached,  I  could  then  in  five  years  write  you  a  Frederickiad  [an  epic  on 
Fredei'ick  the  Great],  a  classic  tragedy,  and,  as  you  so  insist  upon  it,  half 
a  dozen  tine  odes. 

But  that  matrimonial  hint  from  Schiller  to  his  friend  is  not 
really  so  bad  as  it  looks.  If,  in  the  making  of  it,  some  good 
earnest  did  mingle  with  the  playful,  still  all  Schiller  wanted 
was  his  chance  to  work  for  literature  and  for  fame  ;  or, 
rather,  he  wanted  that  in  the  form  of  a  home  and  a  com- 
petence, to  put  him  at  ease  and  at  leisure.  And  perhaps  he 
was  not  without  his  hope  that  Korner  himself  might  be 
incited  to  keep  on  being  his  Msecenas. 

Schiller  never  got  what  he  wanted.  He  lived  narrowly, 
and  died  poor.  Butlu;  found  in  due  time  a  true  wife,  and  his 
work  was  to  him  more  than  wealth.  Perhaps  if  he  had  been 
more  comfortable  he  would  not  have  been  more  productive; 
and  he  might  not  have  lived  so  close  to  the  heart  of  the 
people.  He  might  also  not  have  been  happier.  That 
"  Frederickiad,"  by  the  way,  was  never  written.  But  it  was 
sufficiently  talked  of  between  the  two  friends  for  Schiller  to 
10* 


226  Classic  Germain  Course  in  English. 

give  Korner  some  of  his  ideas  on  the  subject  of  it.     Schiller 
writes  : 

Whatever  it  might  cost  me,  I  should  place  the  freeiliinker,  Voltaire,  in 
a  glorious  Hglit,  and  the  whole  poem  should  bear  that  stamp. 

This  eager  expression  recalls  Goethe's  word  about  Voltaire. 
It  was  hardly  possible,  Goethe  said,  to  conceive  the  influence 
exerted  by  the  brilliant  Frenchman  on  the  young  minds  of 
that  generation.  The  language  just  quoted  from  Schiller,  he 
used  when  he  was  thirty  years  old.  He  seems  never  to  have 
been  other  than  a  deist  of  the  Voltairian  type.  No  scoffer, 
how^ever,  was  he,  like  Voltaire.  His  contrasted  spirit  of 
earnestness  is  favorably  shown  in  his  poem,  The  Words  of 
Faith,  which  we  may  appropriately  introduce  at  the  present 
point.  The  poet  here  confesses  his  own  quasi-religious 
creed,  in  verse  : 

Three  words  I  utter,  of  priceless  worth; 

Tliey  are  the  wide  world's  treasure  ; 
Yet  never  on  earth  had  they  tiieir  birth. 

And  the  spirit  their  depth  must  measure. 
Man  is  ruined — poor — forlorn — 
Wlien  his  faith  in  these  holy  words  is  gone. 

Man  is  Free  created — is  Free — 

Tliough  liis  cradle  may  be  a  prison; 
Mobs  are  no  plea  for  tj^ranny. 

Nor  rabble  bereft  of  reason. 
Fear  not  the  free  man  ;  but  tremble  first 
Before  the  slave,  when  his  chain  is  burst. 

And  Virtue — is  Virtue  an  empty  sound  ? 

Man's  life  is  to  follow  her  teaching; 
Fall  as  he  may  on  the  world's  rough  ground. 

To  tlie  Godlike  he  still  ma}'  be  reaching. 
"What  never  the  wise  by  his  wisdom  can  be. 
The  childlike  becomes  in  simplicity. 

And  God,  in  holj',  eternal  love, 

Reigns  when  humanity  falters  ; 
Tlirongh  limitless  being  his  energies  move. 

His  purpose  of  good  never  alters ; 
Tliough  changes  may  circle  all  matter  and  time, 
God  dwells  in  the  peace  of  perfection  sublime. 


Schiller.  227 

O,  trust  in  these  words  of  mightiest  power; 

They  are  the  wide  world's  treasure ; 
Throngii  ages  they've  been  man's  richest  dower, 

And  the  spirit  their  depth  must  measure. 
Never  is  man  of  good  bereft 
If  his  faith  in  these  holy  words  is  left. 

Mr.  W.  H.  Channing  supplies  us  our  translation.  Such 
words  as  those  from  Schiller  are  tonic  words.  It  is  occasion  of 
rejoicing  that  Schiller's  work,  though  he  did  write  some 
things  that  ought  never  to  have  been  written,  is  on  the  whole 
so  clear  and  so  friendly  to  virtue. 

It  will  have  been  gathered  from  our  sketch  of  Schiller's 
fortunes  that  he  never  enjoyed  the  highest  advantages  for 
thorough  education.  His  lack  of  generous  early  culture 
always  somewhat  hampered  his  genius.  lie  had  to  make  up 
as  best  he  could,  by  study  for  each  emerging  occasion,  what 
might  have  been  in  good  degree  su]>plied  to  hini  through 
wide  general  fitting  and  furnishing  of  his  mind,  had  that 
inestimafble  good  from  fortune  fallen  betimes  to  his  lot. 

But  to  know  Goethe,  as  Schiller  came  at  lengtli  to  know 
him,  Avas  perhaps  better  than  the  average  university  educa- 
tion of  those  days.  For  the  very  best  results,  however,  to 
Schiller,  this  came  to  him  too  late.  There  were  but  ten 
years  left  now  for  him  to  live — years  he  will  make  them  of 
strenuous  and  of  fruitful  activity,  his  really  greatest  works 
being  all  of  thera  still  to  write.  The  best  lyrical  pieces  that 
he  produced,  and  his  noblest,  ripest  dramatic  creations,  belong 
to  the  period  of  his  alliance  with  Goethe,  the  last  ten  years  of 
his  life.  The  So7ig  of  the  Bell,  The  Walk,  among  his  minor 
poems  ;  the  Wallen stein,  the  Mary  Stuart,  the  Maid  of  Or- 
leans, the  Bride  of  Messina,  the  William  Tell,  among  his 
dramas,  were  the  fruit  of  these  final  glorious  years. 

In  the  interval  of  about  five  years,  between  his  first  disap- 
pointing encounter  with  Goethe  and  the  eventual  cementing 
of  his  alliance  with  that  illustrious  man,  there  was  interposed 
a  stage  of  transition  in  development  for  Schiller,  during 
which    it   seemed   half   doubtful  whether  he  might  not  get 


228  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

transformed  from  poet  into  philosopher.  He  fell  under  the 
sway  of  the  Kantian  metaphysics,  and  he  exercised  himself 
in  prose  more  than  in  verse.  It  was  now  that  he  wrote  his 
History  of  the  Thirty  Years''  War.  Of  his  own  success  in 
the  historical  line,  Schiller  thought  favorably  enough  to  write 
to  his  friend  Korner  as  follows: 

I  do  not  see  why  I  should  not  be  the  first  liistorical  writer  iu  German}^, 
if  I  were  to  set  earnestly  to  work ;  and  surely  then  there  would  be  some 
prospects  opening  before  me. 

A  little  while  before,  he  had  written: 

I  am,  and  shall  remain,  a  poet,  and  shall  die  a  poet. 

The  sense  of  vocation  to  poetry  wavered  only,  it  never 
quite  intermitted,  with  Schiller. 

Besides  his  Thirty  Years'  War,  Schiller  wrote  an  histor- 
ical fragment,  the  Revolt  of  the  Netherlands.  He  also  com- 
posed a  series  of  letters  on  "  aesthetical  culture,"  in  which  he 
set  forth  his  ideas  of  literary  art.  Schiller  always  possessed 
what  you  might  call  the  courage  of  his  own  literary  achieve- 
ments, lie  expressed  boldly  his  confidence  that  the  prose 
style  in  which  he  composed  his  ^Esthetic  Letters  was  alone 
enough  to  make  them  immortal.  Ill  equipped  in  scholarship 
as  he  was,  Schiller  undauntedly  attacked  the  choruses  in  the 
Iphigenia  of  Euripides,  for  translation.  Very  cheerful  he 
felt  over  his  results.     To  Korner  he  wrote: 

The  choruses  gain  by  my  translation,  that  is  to  say,  what  they  would 
not  liave  gained  by  another  translator;  for  the  diction  in  the  original  im- 
parts great  beauty  to  them.  I  challenge  many  of  our  poets,  who  pride 
themselves  upon  their  Greek  and  Latin,  to  do  what  I  have  done  from  so 
cold  a  subject.  It  was  not  in  my  power,  like  them,  to  make  use  of  the 
niceties  of  the  Greek  text.  I  was  obliged  to  guess  at  my  original,  or, 
rather,  to  create  a  new  one. 

Again,  of  his  finished  Wallenstein,  Schiller  writes  to 
Korner: 

I  cannot  deny  that  I  feel  well  satisfied  with  my  own  work,  and  that  I 
admire  it.  You  will  not  miss  any  of  tlie  fire  and  energy  of  my  best  years 
[Schiller  was  now  forty  years  old]  without  their  roughness. 


Schiller.  229 

Such  confidence,  on  his  own  part,  in  himself  was  a  great 
stay  and  a  great  spur  to  *Scliiner's  genius.  Besides  this,  it 
kept  up  the  confidence  of  his  friemls. 

The  standing-place  for  life  and  livelihood  which  Schiller 
finally  secured  was  a  professorship  of  history  in  the  Univer- 
sity of  Jena.  The  labor  was  great  and  the  emoluments  were 
small ;  but  it  was  a  reliance,  and  he  was  brought  within  a  few 
miles  of  Weimar.  Karl  August  became  his  patron,  when 
Goethe  became  his  friend. 

It  was  in  magnanimous  rivalry  of  genius  and  of  art  with 
Goethe  that  Schiller  did  a  large  part  of  his  best  work  as 
lyrical  poet.  The  two  poets  prompted,  spurred,  curbed, 
applauded  each  other.  Goethe  rejoiced  when  a  poem  of  his 
own  in  the  lyrical  line — a  "  ballad,"  as  he  called  it — published 
anonymously,  was  by  some  attributed  to  Schiller.  He  ac- 
cepted it  as  a  sign  that,  in  approximating  one  another,  each 
poet  was  ridding  himself  of  manner  and  possessing  himself 
of  style. 

A  far  less  worthy  Avork  it  was,  to  engage  this  noble  pair  of 
brothers,  when  they  set  themselves  to  a  warfare  of  squibs  in 
verse,  umler  the  title  of  Xenien  (epigrams) — a  warfare  waged 
against  the  whole  generation  of  literary  men  espousing  ideas 
fundamentally  different  from  their  own.  Such  epigrams 
must  be  very  salt  with  wit  to  keep  sapid,  even  a  decade  of 
years.  And  many,  very  many,  of  the  Goethe-Schiller  effu- 
sions lost,  like  champagne,  what  sparkle  they  had,  the  in- 
stant they  were  opened  to  the  public.  Very  stale,  flat,  and 
unprofitable  they  mostly  are  now.  One  is  sorry  that  Goethe 
and  Schiller  ever  condescended  to  such  use  of  their  gifts. 
But  the  immortals  are  mortal  as  long  as  they  live.  They 
become  immortal  only  by  dying. 

The  one  most  massive,  mightiest  work,  the  most  mature, 
and  the  loftiest  too,  of  Schiller's  genius  is,  in  our  own  opinion, 
beyond  perad venture  the  Wallenstein.  This,  therefore,  we 
select  for  our  chief  subject  of  present  exhibition.  Before 
jtroceoding,  however,  to  that,  we  must  show  some  specimens 
of  Schillcv's  minor  poems;  and  then,  too,  besides,  our  readers 


230  Classic  German  Coxirse  in  English. 

will  hardly  content  themselves  without  a  taste  of  that 
redoubtable  work,  that  enfant  terrihie,  of  the  author's  barmy 
youth,  The  Robbers. 

We  begin  with  our  own  individual  first  choice  among  the 
short  poems  of  Schiller.  This  is  entitled,  The  Division  of 
the  Earth.  Mr.  C.  P.  Cranch  translates  it  well,  leaving  a 
touch  or  two  of  infelicity  which,  with  .sincere  modesty,  we 
try  to  amend.  In  one  stanza  he  says  "  bawl,"  where  that 
word  goes  beyond  the  original  in  expressing  unseemly  or  un- 
manly outcry.     Will  "  call  "  do  better  ? 

"Here,  take  the  world!"  cried  Jove,  from  Lis  high  heaven, 
To  mortals — "  Take  it;  it  is  yours,  j'^e  elves; 

'Tis  yours,  for  an  eternal  heirdom  given ; 
Share  it  like  brothers  'mongst  yourselves." 

Then  hasted  every  one  himself  to  suit, 

And  busily  bestirred  them  old  and  young — 

The  farmer  seized  upon  the  harvest  fruit; 

Tiie  squire's  horn  through  the  woodland  rung. 

The  merchant  grasped  his  costly  warehouse  loads, 

The  abbot  chose  him  noble  pipes  of  wine. 
The  king  closed  up  the  bridges  and  the  roads, 

And  said,  "The  tenth  of  all  is  mine." 

Quite  late,  long  after  all  had  been  divided, 

The  Poet  came,  from  distant  wandering; 
Alas!  the  case  was  everj^where  decided — 

Proprietors  for  every  thing ! 

"  Ah,  woe  is  me  !  shall  I  alone  of  all 

Forgotten  be — I,  thy  most  faitiiful  son  ?" 
In  loud  lament  he  thus  began  to  call. 

And  threw  himself  before  Jove's  throne. 

"If  in  tlie  land  of  dreams  thou  bast  delayed," 
Replied  the  god,  "  then  quarrel  not  with  me ; 

"Where  wast  thou  when  division  here  was  made  ?'■ 
"  I  was,"  the  Poet  said,  "  with  thee  ; — 

"Mine  eyes  hung  on  th}^  countenance  so  briglit. 

Mine  ear  drank  in  thy  heaven's  harmony; 
Forgive  the  soul  which,  drunken  with  thy  light, 

Forgot  that  earlli  had  aught  for  me." 


Schiller.  231 

"  What  shall  I  do  ?"  said  Zeiis,  "the  world's  all  given: 
The  harvest,  chase,  or  market,  no  more  mine  ; 

If  ihow  wilt  come  and  live  witli  me  in  heaven, 
As  often  as  thou  com'st,  m}'  homo  is  thine." 

Very  prettily  conceived,  it  seems  to  us.  Mr.  Cranch  fol- 
lows Schiller  in  the  irregularity  of  making  his  last  line  a  foot 
longer,  for  the  closing  stanza,  than  for  the  others.  We  have 
only  to  suggest  that  a  slight  seeming  inconsistency  might 
easily  have  been  avoided  by  the  author — the  inconsistency, 
that  is,  of  making  his  Poet  account  as  he  does  for  his  failui-e 
to  be  on  hand  at  the  division.  The  Poet  explains  that  he 
was  with  Jove,  at  that  important  moment.  But  how,  if  he 
was  with  Jove,  should  not  he  have  heard  the  proclamation  to 
divide  given  out  in  Jove's  own  voice  ?  Equally  well  Schiller 
might  have  had  the  proclamation  sent  forth  silently  by  mes- 
sengers going  to  all  quarters — which  would  have  left  the 
Poet's  excuse  unassailably  good. 

By  the  side  of  Schiller's  Words  of  Faith,  already  given, 
we  might  have  i)laced  his  hymn  of  Hope,  which  prophesies 
to  the  soul  its  own  immortality — the  translation  is  Mr.  J.  S. 
D  wight's: 

A  still  small  voice  in  every  soul 
Of  happier  days  keeps  chanting ; 

And  eagerly  on  to  the  golden  goal 
We  see  men  running  and  panting. 

The  world  grows  old  and  grows  young  again ; 

Still  this  hope  of  improvement  haunts  man's  brain. 

Hope  welcomes  to  life  the  smiling  ciiild  ; 

Her  light  shapes  round  the  school-boj'  swim ; 
Hope  fires  the  young  man  with  visions  wild  ; 

And  she  goes  not  under  the  eartii  with  him, 
When  his  race  is  run,  and  the  grave  doth  ope; — 
On  the  brink  of  the  grave  he  planteth — Hope. 

It  is  not  an  empty,  flatteruig  dream. 

Offspring  of  idle  thought; 
Through  every  heart  it  sendeth  a  gleam 

Of  that  better  world  we've  sought. 
And  what  the  voice  within  us  speaks 
Deceives  not  the  soul  that  trustingly  seeks. 


232  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


In  The  Ideal  and  Life,  Schiller  gives  us  a  confession  of 
his  own  poetical  faith.  He  always,  in  principle  as  in  practice, 
was  a  poet  of  the  ideal.  Whereas  Goethe  aimed  to  hold  his 
mirror  up  to  the  world  and  to  life,  so  as  to  reflect  that  which 
is,  Schiller  was  ever  seeking  to  catch  in  his  mirror  an  image 
of  the  unseen  ideal,  that  he  might  show  it  to  men,  and  inspire 
them  with  a  view  of  that  which  ought  to  he.  Here,  in  the 
rendering  of  Mr.  J.  S.  Dwight,  are  the  first  three  stanzas  of 
the  poem — there  are  fifteen  stanzas  in  all : 

Ever  clear,  and  mirror-pure,  and  even, 
Zephyr-liglit  flows  life  in  heaven, 

Where  th'  OljMnpians  spend  their  blessed  days. 
Moons  keep  changing,  race  on  race  keep  flying; 
But  the  roses  of  their  youth,  undying, 

Changeless  blossom,  while  all  else  decays. 
'Twixt  tlie  soul's  repose  and  joys  terrestrial, 

Man  must  hesitate  and  choose  aloue ; 
On  the  lofty  browns  of  the  celestial 

Both  do  glitter,  blent  in  cue. 

Would  ye  here  on  earth  the  gods  resemble. 
And  at  death  no  longer  tremble  ? 

Of  his  garden's  fruit,  then,  never  taste. 
On  the  show  the  eyes  may  feed  at  leisure ; 
But  enjoyment's  transitory  pleasure 

Soon  by  sick  satiety  is  chased. 
p]'eu  tlie  Styx,  which  nine  times  winds  around  her, 

Chains  not  Ceres'  daughter  to  that  shore ; 
For  the  apple  grasped  she,  and  then  bound  her 

Orcus'  claim  for  evermore. 

Flesh  alone  is  subject  to  those  powers 
Weaving  this  dark  fate  of  ours  ; 

While  above  the  reach  of  time  or  storm, 
Playmate  of  the  blessed  ones  up  3'onder, 
She  amid  the  flowers  of  light  doth  wander, 

Godlike  'mid  the  gods,  nndyiug  Form. 
Would  ye  soar  aloft  on  her  strong  pinion? 

Fling  away  all  earthly  cnre  and  strife! 
Up  into  th'  Ideal's  pure  dominion 

Fly  from  this  dull,  narrow  life  ! 


Schiller.  233 

Enough  of  Schiller's  quasi-moralizing  songs.  His  cele- 
brated Song  of  the  Bell  is  a  song  moralized,  rather  than  moi*- 
alizing.  That  is  to  say,  the  direct  ostensible  intention  is  not 
to  inculcate  a  moral;  but  indirectly,  and  as  it  were  by  occa- 
sion, a  moral  is  conveyed.  The  poem  describes  the  process 
of  founding  or  casting  a  bell.  The  really  descriptive  part 
is,  however,  shorter  and  less  important  than  the  part  which 
by  association  of  some  sort,  treats  of  human  life.  The  poem 
is  one  of  considerable  length — too  long  to  be  given  entire.  A 
section  cut  out  from  the  heart  of  it  will  very  well  exemplify 
the  spirit  and  the  method  of  it  all.  The  process  of  the 
founding  has  reached  a  i)oint  at  which  the  melted  amalgam 
presents  to  fracture  a  certain  appearance.  This  the  poet 
describes,  and  then  passes,  with  sudden,  surprising  associa- 
tion of  thought,  to  the  idea  of  a  conflagration  which,  at  the 
critical  moment  of  transfer  to  the  mold,  miscarriage  with  the 
fiery  molten  mass  might  j)roduce: 

Well — we  may  bepjiu  to  poiir; 

Pointed  hard  the  edges  are 
Where  we  break  it.     But  before 

Offer  up  a  pious  prayer. 

Out  the  stopples  stave  1 

God  the  building  save  I 
Roaring,  smoking  through  the  pass, 
Shools  the  fiery,  swelling  mass. 

An  instrument  of  good  is  fire, 
Witli  man  to  watch  and  tame  its  ire; 
And  all  he  forges,  all  he  makes. 
The  virtue  of  the  flame  partakes  ; 
But  friglitfully  it  rages  wlien 
It  breaks  away  from  every  chain, 
And  sweeps  along  its  own  wild  way, 
Child  of  Nature,  stern  and  free. 
Woe  if  once,  with  deafening  roar. 

Naught  its  fury  to  withstand, 
Through  the  peopled  streets  it  pour, 

Hurling  wide  the  deadly  brand  ! 
Eager  the  elements  devour 

Kvory  work  of  human  hand. 


^34  Classic  German  Course  in  E)iglish. 

From  the  cloud,  to  bless  the  plain, 

Pours  tlie  rain ; 

From  the  cloud,  our  hopes  to  dash, 

Darts  the  flash  I 

Hear'st  that  moaiiiug  from  the  tower? 

'Tis  the  tempest  dread  1 

Bloody  red 
The  heavens  glour ; 
'Tis  not  daylight's  steady  glow ! 
Hark,  what  tumult  now 
Rends  the  sky! 

Lo  1  the  smoke  up-rolling  high  ! 
Flickering  mount  the  fiery  shafts : 
Where  the  wind  its  wild  wave  wafts, 
Onward  through  the  street's  long  course 
Rolls  the  flame  with  gathering  force  ; 
As  in  an  oven's  jaws,  the  air 
Heated  glows  with  ruddy  glare  ; 
Falling  fast  the  rafters  shatter. 
Pillars  crash  and  whidows  clatter, 
Children  scream  and  mothers  scatter; 
Beasts  to  perish,  left  alone, 
'Mid  the  ruins  groan. 
Ah  is  luirry,  rescue,  flight ; 
Clear  as  noon-day  is  tlie  night ; 
Through  the  hands,  in  lengthened  rows, 

Buckets  fly ; 
Through  the  air,  in  graceful"  bows, 

Shoots  the  watery  stream  on  high. 
Fierce  the  howling  tempest  grows; 
Swiftly,  borne  upon  the  blast. 
Rides  the  flame,  devouring  fast ; 
Roaring,  crackling,  it  consumes 
All  the  crowded  granary  rooms ; 
Ail  the  rafters  blaze  on  high; 
And,  as  if  'twould  tear  away 
Earth's  foundations  in  its  flight. 
On  it  mounts  to  heaven's  height, 

Giant-tall ! 

Hope  liath  all 
Man  forsaken  ;  helpless  now 
He  to  heavenly  might  must  bow, 

Idly  musing  o'er  his  fall, 
Wondering  at  his  work  laid  low. 


Schiller.  235 

Burnt  to  ashes 

Lies  ilie  town, 
Like  a  desert  spread 
For  the  wild  storm's  bed. 
Throusjh  tlie  dreary  window-holes 
Darkness  lurks  and  boding  owls  ; 

Through  bare  walls  the  clouds  look  down. 
Lingering  yet, 
One  look  he  casts 
O'er  the  tomb 

Where  his  hopes  were  wont  to  bloom ; 
Then  takes  up  the  wanderer's  stall": — 
Now  at  Fortune  he  may  laugh  ; 
For  one,  his  sweetest,  purest  joy. 
The  cruel  flame  could  not  destroy ; 
Where  are  those  lives,  than  life  more  dear? 
His  little  innocents?     Are  the}*  here? 
He  numbers  o'er  his  little  band, 
And  all  his  dear  ones  round  him  stand. 

To  the  earth  now  we've  consigned  it, 

Safely  lodged  within  the  clay: — 
Beautilhl,  as  we  designed  it. 
Will  it  now  our  toil  repay? 
Should  the  cast  go  wrong  ? 
Or  burst  the  model  strong  ? 
Ah  !  perhaps  while  we  were  working, 
Mischief  has  been  near  us  lurking. 

We  appended  the  strophe  in  which  Schiller  describes  the 
stage  thus  accomplished  in  the  bell-founding,  so  that  our 
readers  might  the  better  see  how  transition  is  effected  from 
point  to  point  of  the  process  The  poet  proceeds  to  com- 
pare the  depositing  of  the  bell  in  a  mold  of  eai'th  to  the  con- 
signing of  seed  to  the  soil.  Then  with  a  touch  of  human 
feeling,  such  as  is  Schiller's  and  such  as  is  not  Goethe's,  he 
adds  these  lines: 

But  costlier  seed  we  bury,  weeping, 
While  in  meek  faith  to  heaven  we  pray. 

That  from  the  coffin's  loathsome  keeping 
It  may  spring  forth  to  brighlor  day. 

No  wonder  that  Schiller  has,  f;vr  beyond  (tooIIic,  the  heart 
of  the  <»('iiii:iM  fatherland. 


236  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Of  the  minor  poems  of  Schillei",  having  narrative  interest 
in  them — his  "ballads"  more  properly  so-called — the  Diver 
and  the  Knight  Toggenburg  are  probably  as  good  examples  as 
any.  Schiller's  productions  of  this  sort  are  very  popular  in 
Germany.  They  are  highly  charged  with  sentiment,  or  they 
are  fervid  with  lyrical  movement.  Take  first  the  Diver. 
This  ballad  was  founded  on  a  legend  the  story  of  which 
Schiller  has  modified  to  suit  his  own  ideas.  The  hero  of  the 
old  legend  was  a  professional  diver,  and  there  was  no  ro- 
mance of  love  involved.  With  Schiller  it  is  an  interesting 
young  page  who  does  the  dangerous  feat,  and,  by  way  of 
afterthought,  love  is  introduced  as  a  motive.  The  changes 
add  to  the  interest,  but  they  take  away  from  the  verisimili- 
tude, of  the  story.  In  reading  Schiller's  Diver,  you  feel  that 
the  action  of  the  cup-throwing,  on  the  part  of  the  king,  is  too 
wanton,  is  not  supplied  with  motive  enough.  Equally  you 
feel  to  be  not  adequately  warranted  the  gallant  young  page's 
first  willingness  to  venture  himself  for  the  prize.  But 
one's  instinctive  sense  of  the  vivid  force  of  the  narrative 
and  the  description,  such  critical  considerations  hardly 
affect.  As  to  how  Schiller  prepared  himself  for  describing 
the  whirlpool,  a  note  of  his  to  Goethe  supplies  an  interesting 
indication.  Goethe  had  written  some  complaisance  to  Schil- 
ler about  the  agreement  he  found  to  exist  between  the 
Diver  and  something  that  he  had  himself  actually  seen  in  his 
travels — the  Falls  of  Schalfhausen,  we  think  it  was.  Schiller 
replied : 

T  am  not  a  little  glad  that,  according  to  your  observation,  my  description 
of  tiie  whirlpool  should  correspond  with  the  actual  phenomena;  my  only 
opportunity  of  studying  this  bit  of  nature  was  at  a  mill,  but  I  also  carefnll}'^ 
studied  Homer's  description  of  the  Charj'bdis,  and  that  perhaps  may  liave 
helped  me  to  keep  to  nature." 

Here  is  the  poem  retrenched  of  five  stanzas — Mr.  Dwight 
translates  again  : 

"  Who  dares  it?     What  kniglit  or  squire  so  brave 

Will  dive  for  this  golden  cup  ? 
See,  I  cast  it  into  the  whirling  wave — 

See,  tlie  chasm's  black  throat  lias  swallowed  it  up. 


Schiller.  237 

'Tis  gone — whoever  now  will  show  it, 

On  the  vculiiiLiis  seeker  I'll  freely  bestow  it." 

The  inonarcli  spe;\ks,  and  away  he  throws 

From  the  clift"  that,  rough  and  steep, 
Out  over  the  boundless  ocean  rose, 

The  cup  to  the  whirlpool's  howling  deep. 
"  Now,  who's  tlie  firm-hearted — again  I  speak  it — 
In  the  Charybdis's  jaws  to  seek  it  ?" 

But  all,  as  before,  dead  silence  kept; 

When  a  youth,  right  gentle  to  view, 
From  the  trembling  crowd  of  pages  stepped. 

And  Ills  belt  and  mantle  behind  him  threw. 
And  the  knights  and  ladies  stood  wondering  there 
To  see  what  a  beardless  youth  would  dare. 

As  he  stepped  to  the  brink  to  take  one  look  o'er 

On  the  whirling  gulf  below. 
The  Charybdis  was  just  giving  back  with  a  roar 

The  floods  it  had  swallowed  but  even  now  ; 
And,  like  the  far  thunder's  awful  rumbling, 
From  its  gloomy  lap  they  came  foaming  and  tumbling. 

And  it  whirled,  and  it  boiled,  and  it  roared,  and  it  hissed. 

As  when  water  and  fire  contend  ; 
It  sprinkled  the  skies  with  its  scattering  mist, 

And  tiood  on  flood  crowded  on  without  end, 
As  'twould  never  go  dry — 3'on  could  fancy  rather 
That  one  ocean  was  giving  birth  to  another. 

But  its  angry  heavings  at  lengtli  subside. 

And  black,  throng!  1  the  foam-crests  white, 
Down  cleaves  a  yawning  crevice  wide. 

Deep  down  to  the  heart  of  night; 
And  the  roar  of  tlie  waves  grows  dead  and  hollow, 
As  down  through  the  gurgling  tunnel  they  follow. 

Now  swift,  ere  the  flood  rolls  back,  he  springs, 

Commending  to  God  liis  soul, 
And  a  shriek  of  terror  above  him  rings; 

He's  swept  away  in  the  billowy  roll ; 
And  away  from  all  eyes,  with  a  moment's  glimmer. 
The  black  gulf  snatches  the  hardy  swiunner. 


238  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


Not  a  sound  o'er  tlie  watery  gulf  is  heard, 

Save  the  miirmiu'ing,  deep  sea-swell; 
Or  when  mouth  to  mouth  faint  wliispers  tlie  word: , 

"  Thou  higli-hearted  youth,  faro  thee  well !" 
And  more  and  more  hollow  its  howling  they  hear — 
'Tis  a  moment  of  breathless  suspense  and  fear. 

And  it  whirled,  and  it  boiled,  and  it  roared,  and  it  hissed. 

As  when  water  and  fire  contend ; 
It  sprinkled  the  skies  with  its  scattering  mist, 

And  flood  on  flood  crowded  on  without  end  ; 
And,  like  the  far  thunder's  awful  rumbling. 
From  its  gloomy  lap  they  came  foaming  and  tumbling. 

And  see  1  from  the  blackening  billows  there 

What  hfteth  itself  so  white  ? 
Now  an  arm,  now  a  swan-like  neck,  is  bare  ; 

And  it  struggles  up  with  a  swimmer's  might; 
And — 'tis  he!  in  his  left  hand  holding  up, 
With  a  flourish  of  triumph,  the  glittering  cup. 

And  he  comes ;  they  crowd  round  him  with  jubilee  peals ; 

At  his  monarch's  feet  he  sinks, 
And  presents  him  tiie  cup,  as  ho  lumibly  kneels  ; 

And  the  king  to  his  beautiful  daugliler  winks; 
She  fihs  it  with  sparkling  wine  to  the  edge. 
And  the  brave  youth  turns  his  monarch  to  pledge. 

"  Long  life  to  the  king !     And  enjoy  him  well. 

Who  here  breathes  in  the  rosy  light ; 
But  under  there  it  is  terrible  ; 

0  tempt  not  the  gods,  nor  their  warning  slight, 
And  never,  0  never  desire  to  see 
What  they've  graciously  hid  in  night  from  thee. 

"  It  hurried  me  under,  lightning-swift; 

Then  up  through  the  tunnel  of  rock 
An  opposite  current  took  me  adrift. 

Till  the  two  streams  met  in  furious  shock, 
And  kept  me  poised  like  a  spinning  top 
Dizzily  whirled,  with  no  power  to  stop. 

"  But  God  was  there  in  my  hour  of  fear, 

As  I  prayed  with  half-spent  breath, 
And  showed  me  a  ledge  that  jutted  near, 

And  I  clasped  it  quick  and  escaped  my  death; 


Schiller.  239 

And  there  hung  the  cup  on  a  coral  tree, 
Else  had  it  gone  down  eternally ; — 

"  For  below  me  it  la}-  there,  mountains  deep. 

In  purple  darkness  spread ; 
And  though  to  the  car  all  seemed  to  sleep, 

Yet  the  eye  could  see  far  down  with  dread, 
How  the  huge  salamanders,  and  dragons  with  claws,. 
Groped  about  there  within  its  licllish  jaws. 

"  All  knotted  together,  in  uneasy  play 

They  nestled,  a  hideous  swarm — 
The  swift  sword-fish  and  the  prickly  ray. 

And  the  heavy  liammer's  missliapen  form, 
And,  gnashing  his  teeth  with  angry  motion, 
1  saw  the  grim  shark,  the  hyena  of  ocean. 


"  0,  then  I  shook — for  they  crawled  up  near, 

A  hundred  at  once,  where  I  hung. 
As  if  they  would  snap  at  me;  all  in  my  fear 

I  let  go  the  coral  to  which  I  had  clung  ; 
When,  with  deafening  roar,  the  whirlpool  cauglit  me: 
But  it  caught  to  save — for  to  light  it  brought  me." 

In  sheer  amazement  stood  the  king, 
And  said:   "The  beaker's  thine  own; 

And  I'll  give  thee  moreover  this  golden  ring, 
Gleaming  with  costliest  diamond  stone. 

If  thou'lt  tempt  it  again,  and  bring  word  to  me. 

What  thou  saw'st  on  the  lowermost  bed  of  the  sea." 

That  heard  the  fair  daughter  with  dismay. 

And  she  pleaded  most  winningly  : 
"  0  father,  enough  of  the  terrible  play! 

He  hatli  stood  what  no  other  hath  stood  for  thee  1 
If  thy  heart's  cruel  craving  thou  canst  not  tame, 
Let  one  of  thy  knights  put  the  boy  to  shame." 

But  the  monarch  snatched  at  the  glittering  cup, 

And  he  hurled  it  with  all  his  might: 
"  Now  dive,  my  brave  youth,  and  bring  me  it  up. 

And  thee  will  I  name  my  most  excellent  knight; 
And  to  her  thou  this  day  shalt  wedded  be, 
Who  pleads  for  thee  now  so  tenderly." 


'240  Classic  German  Course  in  EixjlisJ). 

Then  with  lieavenly  force  o'er  his  soul  it  swept, 

And  it  Hashed  from  his  eyes,  like  tire ; 
And  he  saw  where  the  blushitig  maiden  wept, 

And  he  saw  her  sink  trembling  before  her  sire; 
Then  it  moves  him,  the  lieavenly  prize  to  win. 
For  life  or  for  death  he  plunges  in. 

lull  soon  come  the  breakers,  full  plainly  they  hear, 

Back  rolling  with  thundering  brawl; 
All  fondly  bend  over  to  see  him  appear : 

They're  coming,  they're  coming,  the  waters  all! 
They  come  and  they  go  with  a  fiendish  glee; — 
But  the  youth — why  comes  not  he? 

Tlie  "Knight  Toggenburg,"  is  softly  sentimental,  rather 
than  lyrically  swift  and  bold.  Here  it  is;  our  translation  is 
from  the  Edinburgh  Review : 

"Knigl)t,  to  love  thee  like  a  sister 

Vows  this  heart  to  thee; 
Ask  no  other  warmer  feeling — 

That  were  pain  to  me. 
Tranquil  would  I  see  thy  coming. 

Tranquil  see  thee  go; 
What  that  starting  tear  would  tell  me 

I  must  never  know." 

He  with  silent  anguish  listens, 

Though  his  heart-strings  bleed; 
Clasps  her  in  his  last  embraces, 

Springs  upon  liis  steed, 
Summons  every  faithful  vassal 

From  his  Alpine  home, 
Binds  the  cross  upon  liis  bosom, 

Seeks  the  Holy  Tomb. 

There  full  many  a  deed  of  glory 

Wrought  the  henj's  arm; 
Foremost  still  iiis  plum.ige  floated 

Where  the  foemcn  swarm  ; 
Till  the  Moslem,  terror-striken, 

Quailed  before  liis  name. 
But  the  pang  that  wrings  his  bosom 

Lives  at  heart  the  same. 


Schiller.  241 


One  long  year  he  bears  his  sorrow, 

Eut  no  more  can  bear; 
Rest  he  seeks,  but,  findhig  never, 

Leaves  the  army  there; 
Sees  a  ship  by  Joppa's  haven. 

Which,  with  sweUing  sail. 
Wafts  him  where  his  lady's  breathing 

Mingles  with  the  gale. 

At  her  fatlier's  castle  portal, 

Hark  !  his  knock  is  heard  ; 
See  !  the  gloomy  gate  nncloses 

With  the  thunder- word: 
"  She  thou  se.ek'st  is  veiled  forever, 

Is  the  bride  oF  heaven  ; 
Tester  eve  the  vows  were  plighted — 

She  to  God  is  given." 

Tlien  his  old  ancestral  castle 

He  forever  tiees ; 
Battle-steed  and  trusty  weapon 

Never  more  he  sees. 
From  tlie  Toggenburg  descending, 

Forth  unknown  he  glides; 
For  the  frame  once  sheathed  in  iron 

Now  the  sackcloth  hides. 

There  beside  that  hallowed  region 

He  hath  built  his  bower. 
Where  from  out  tlie  dusky  lindens 

Looked  the  convent  tower ; 
Waiting  from  the  morning's  glimmer 

Till  the  day  was  done. 
Tranquil  hope  in  every  feature. 

Sat  he  there  alone. 

Gazing  upward  to  the  convent. 

Hour  on  hour  he  passed, 
Watching  still  his  lady's  lattice. 

Till  it  oped  at  last- 
Till  that  form  looked  forth  so  lovely, 

Till  the  sweet  face  smiled 
Down  into  the  lonesome  valley. 

Peaceful,  angel-mild. 


11 


242  Classic  German  Course  In  l^ngllsli. 

Tlien  he  laid  him  down  to  slumber, 

Cheered  by  peaceful  dreams, 
Caln)l3'  wailing  till  the  raoruing 

Sliowed  again  its  beams. 
Tims  for  daj's  he  watched  and  waited. 

Thus  for  years  he  lay, 
Happy  if  he  saw  the  lattice 

Open  day  by  day — 

If  that  form  looked  forth  so  lovely, 

If  the  sweet  face  smiled 
Down  into  the  lonesome  valley. 

Peaceful,  angel-mild. 
Then  a  corse  tliey  found  him  sitting 

Once  when  daj'  returned  ; 
Still  his  pale  and  placid  features 

To  the  lattice  turned. 

We  shall  not  deny  that  to  us  the  foregoing  celebrated 
poem  seems  too  feeble  and  improbable  in  motive  to  be  de- 
serving of  its  celebrity.  The  story  is  perhaps  as  well  told  as 
so  extremely  lackadaisical  a  story  admitted  of  being;  the 
trouble  is  that  it  was  hardly  worth  being  told  at  all.  But 
at  points  where  motive,  or  probability,  or  consistent  concep- 
tion of  character  are  in  question,  Germans  are  less  exacting 
literary  judges  than  we  English-speakers  ;  or  else  a  lack  ex- 
isting at  such  points,  in  a  literary  production,  they  are  better 
able  to  supply  from  the  resources  of  their  own  imagination, 
or  their  own  sensibility. 

It  will  be  a  fairly  sharp  change  now,  but  a  stimulating,  to 
revert  for  a  moment  to  that  Titan  offspring  of  Schiller's 
youth,  The  Robbers.  The  hero  of  this  play  is  a  Avell-boi-n 
wild  young  fellow  who  takes  to  the  road,  or  rather  to  the 
woods — that  is,  becomes  a  robber.  The  occasion  is,  his  be- 
ing disowned  and  cast  off  by  his  father,  or  his  supposing 
himself  to  be  so — this,  and  general  dissatisfaction  with  tlie 
existing  state  of  society  ;  in  reality,  his  being  disowned  is  a  vile 
plot  laid  against  him  by  his  younger  brother  at  home,  who 
traduces  him,  absent,  to  his  fnther  as  a  reckless  and  graceless 
spendthrift.     Charles  von   Moor  is  the  gentleman   robber's 


Schiller.  243 

name.  Charles  becomes  the  leader  of  an  organized  band  of 
like-minded  companions,  who  make  themselves  the  terror  of 
the  country-side.  The  upshot  is  that  (Jharles  leads  his  troop 
to  the  neighborhood  of  his  own  old  home,  and  there  learns 
that  his  lather  is  in  a  dungeon  dying  of  starvation  under 
the  cruel  tyranny  of  his  wicked  brother ;  while  his  sweet- 
heart too  is  persecuted  by  that  same  brother's  loathsome  suit 
for  her  hand.  He  frees  his  father,  but  almost  immediately, 
by  disclosing  himself  to  him  as  a  robber  and  a  murderer, 
causes  the  old  man's  death  through  grief,  he  drives  his  wicked 
brother  to  suicide,  stabs  with  his  ov/n  hand  his  beloved  to  the 
heart,  to  attest  his  loyalty  to  the  robber  band — he  had  sworn 
a  great  oath  to  them  that  he  would  never  forsake  them — and 
finally  gives  himself  up  to  justice,  as  his  sacrifice  laid  on  the 
altar  of  law.  Absurd  enough,  you  will  say  ;  but  it  was  not 
so  absurd  as  not  to  fire  well-nigh  to  madness  the  inflammable 
heart  of  that  generation  of  young  men.  The  prose  style  in 
which  the  play  is  written  well  comports  with  the  spirit  in 
which  it  is  conceived ;  it  is  to  the  last  degree  extravagant  and 
wild.  The  author  seems  to  have  had  little  other  aim  than  to 
seek  everywhere  the  very  strongest  expression  of  which  lan- 
guage admitted.  The  result  would  be  pure  burlesque,  but  for 
the  strange  heart  of  sincerity  that  beats  and  burns  under  the 
beating  and  burning  words.  You  feel  the  unmistakable  pulse 
of  power.  As  pei'formance,  worth  nothing  at  all,  this  drama, 
as  promise,  was  worth  something  incalculable.  The  stormy 
vehemence  of  The  Robbers  contrasts  with  the  effeminate  inten- 
sity o'iWerther  about  as  the  moral  vigor  of  Schiller's  character 
contrasted  with  the  emasculated  softness  of  Goethe's.  There 
was  traceable  to  the  last,  in  either  author's  work,  something  of 
the  quality  that  those  two  youthful  pieces  severally  revealed. 
A  fragment  condensed  from  that  closing  scene  in  which 
Charles  strikes  his  Amelia  dead,  and  then  announces  his  pur- 
pose of  giving  himself  up  to  justice,  will  satisfy  most  readers. 
The  scene  is  lai<l  in  a  forest  near  Charles's  ancestral  castle. 
Amelia,  unrecognized,  of  course,  by  her  captors,  is  brouglit 
in,  a  prize,   to  Charles.     She,  as   Schiller's   stage  directions 


244  Classic  German  Course  m  iJ/ir/lish. 

describe  it,  "  rushes  upon  Charles  and  embraces  hira  in  an 
ecstasy  of  delight."     We  condense  : 

C/iaWes.  Tear  her  from  my  neck  !  Kill  lier!  Kill  him  !  Kill  me — your- 
selves— every  body !     Let  the  whole  world  perish  !     [About  to  rtish  off.] 

Amelia.  Wliitlier?  what?  Love!  eternity!  happiness!  never-ending 
joys !  and  thou  wouldst  fly  ?  .  .  . 

C.  Too  late  !  In  vain!  Your  curse,  father !  .  .  .  Die,  father  !  Die,  for 
the  third  time,  through  me!  These,  thy  deliverers,  are  robbers  and  mur- 
derers!    Thy  Charles  is  their  captain  !     [Old  3Ioor  ex^nres.'] 

[Amelia  stands  silent  and  transfixed  like  a  statue.  Tlie  whole  band  are 
mute.     A  fearful  pause.'] 

C.  [ru,shinij  against  an  oak].  Tlie  souls  of  those  I  have  strangled  in  the 
intoxication  of  love — of  tliose  whom  I  crushed  to  atoms  in  tlie  i-acredness 
of  sleep — of  those  whom — Ha !  ha  !  ha !  do  yon  hear  the  powder-maga- 
zine bursting  over  the  heads  of  women  in  travail?  Do  you  see  the  flames 
creeping  round  the  cradles  of  sucklings?  That  is  our  nuptial  torch; 
those   shrieks   our  wedding  music!  .  .  . 

A.  .  .  .  What  have  I  done,  poor  innocent  lamb?   I  have  loved  this  man! 

C.  This  is  more  than  a  man  can  endure.  Have  I  not  lieard  death  hiss- 
ing at  me  from  more  than  a  thou?and  barrels,  and  never  yet  moved  a  liair's 
breadth  out  of  its  way.  And  shall  I  now  be  taught  to  tremble  like  a 
woman?  tremble  before  a  woman  !  No!  a  woman  shall  not  conquer  my 
manly  courage !  Blood !  blood !  'tis  but  a  fit  of  womanish  feeling.  I 
must  glut  myself  with  blood;  and  this  will  pass  away.    [He  is  about  to  fly.] 

A.  [sinking  into  Jiis  arms].  Murderer!  devil!  I  cannot — angel — leave 
thee ! 

C.  [thrusting  her  from  him].  Away!  insidious  serpent!  .  .  .  Dost  thou 
remember  whom  thou  art  embracing,  Amelia? 

A.  My  only  one,  mine,  mine  forever. 

C.  [recovering  himself  in  an  ecstasy  of  joy].  She  forgives  me,  she  loves 
me!  Then  am  I  pure  as  the  ether  of  heaven,  for  she  loves  me!  With 
tears  I  thank  thee,  all-merciful  Father !  [He  falls  on  his  knees  and  bursts 
into  a  violent  fit  of  weephig.]  ...  0  Amelia!  Amelia!  Amelia!  [He 
hangs  on  her  neck,  they  remain  locked  in  a  silent  embrace]. 

A  Robber  [stepping  fonoard  enraged].  Hold,  traitor!  Tliis  instant  come 
from  her  arms!  .  .  . 

An  Ac,  ed  Bobber.  Faithless  man!  where  are  thy  oatlis?  Are  wounds 
so  soon  forgotten?  .  .  .  Base,  perfidious  wretch!  and  wouldst  thou  now 
desert  us  at  the  whining  of  a  harlot? 

A  Third  Bobber.  Shame  on  thy  perjury !  .  .  . 

The  Bobbers  [cdl  in  disorder,  tearing  open  their  garments].  See  here!  and 
here!  Dost  thou  know  these  scars ?  Thou  art  ours!  With  our  hearts' 
blood  we  have  bought  thee,  and  thou  art  ours  bodily,  even  though  the 


Schiller.  245 

iircliangel  Michael  should  seek  to  wrest  thee  out  of  the  grasp  of  ilie  fiery 
Moloch  I  Now!  March  with  us!  Sacrifice  for  sacrifice,  Amelia  for  the 
band ! 

C.  [I'eleasiiig  her  liand].  It  is  past !  I  would  arise  and  return  to  my 
father  ;  but  Heaven  has  said,  "  It  shall  not  be  I"  .  .  .  Come  along,  com- 
rades ! 

A.  [pullinff  him  hack].  Stay,  I  beseech  yon  I  One  blow!  one  deadly 
blow  I     Again  forsaken!     Draw  thy  sword  and  liave  mercy  upon  me  I 

C.  Mercy  has  taken  refuge  among  bears.     I  will  not  kill  thee  ! 

A.  [emhracing  his  knees].  0  for  heaven's  sake!  .  .  .  All  I  ask  is  deatli. 
See,  my  hand  trembles  I  I  have  not  courage  to  strike  the  blow.  I  shrink 
from  the  gleaming  blade  I  To  thee  it  is  so  easy,  so  very  eas}^ ;  thou  art  a 
master  in  murder — draw  thy  sword,  and  make  me  happy! 

G.  Wouldst  thou  alone  be  happy?  Away  with  thee!  I  will  kill  no 
woman ! 

A.  Ha!  destroyer!  thou  canst  only  kill  theliappy;  those  who  are  weary 

of  existence  thou  sparest !     {^Slie  glides  toivard  the  robbers.]      Then  do  ye 

,  have  mercy  on  me,  disciples  of  murder!     There  lurks  a  blood-thirsty  pity 

in  }-our  looks  that  is  consoling  to  the  wretched.     Your  master  is  a  boaster 

and  a  coward. 

C.  Woman,  what  dost  thou  say  ?     [T/ie  robbers  twn  awmj.] 

A.  No  friend?  No;  not  even  among  tl:ese  a  friend?  \^She 'i  ises.]  "Well, 
tlicu,  lei  Dido  teach  me  how  to  die  !  \^She  is  going ;  a  robber  takes  aim  at 
her.] 

0.  Hold !  dare  it !  Moor's  Amelia  shall  die  by  no  olhor  hand  than 
Moor's.     \^Ht  strikes  her  dead.] 

Some  altercation  follows  between  Charles  and  his  com- 
panions, and  finally  Charles  decides  on  surrendering  himself 
to  the  officers  of  the  law.  It  Avas  apparently  Schiller's  idea 
that  lie  might  relieve  himself  of  the  reproach  of  immorality 
by  this  method  of  concluding  the  play. 

Schiller's  Walle)>stein  is  a  work  of  immense  volume,  for  a 
])lay ;  the  full  text  of  it  Avould  nearly  or  quite  till  such  a  book 
as  this.  It  exists  in  three  parts,  thus  constituting  what  is, 
technically  as  it  were,  called  a  trilogy.  The  tripartite 
division,  however,  of  the  drama  was  an  afterthought  with 
the  poet.     The  original  conception  was  that  of  one  play. 

Tlie  first  ])art  bears  the  title,  "The  Camp  of  Wallenstein." 
I'lic  iilea  of  this  is  to  accomplish  the  ])urpose  which,  in  an- 
cient tragedy,  the  prologue  was   devised  to  serve;  Schiller 


246  Classic  German  Course  m  English. 

wished  to  instruct  and  prepare  his  spectators  for  the  tragedy 
he  would  present  to  them.  That  such  elaborate  preparation 
was  by  him  deemed  to  be  necessary,  naturally  sutrgests  that 
his  choice  of  subject  was  not  wholly  felicitous.  The  inter- 
est of  Wallenstein,  as  a  possible  character  in  tragedy,  was  in 
fact  too  remote,  and  too  pale  through  remoteness.  We  do 
not  mean  too  remote  by  distance  in  time,  but  too  remote 
by  popular  unfamiliarity.  Wallenstein  had  never  taken 
supreme  possession  of  the  imagination  of  men.  Schiller  had 
to  create  that  general  interest  in  his  hero  which,  properly, 
should  have  existed  already  prepared  to  his  hand.  Be- 
sides this,  the  action  which  he  had  to  treat  was  highly  com- 
plex, and  difficult  to  concentrate  within  manageable  limits. 
That,  in  the  face  of  conditions  so  little  friendly  to  success, 
Schiller  should  have  succeeded,  and  succeeded  magnificently, 
was  a  true  triumph  of  genius;  of  genius,  and  also  of  character 
no  less. 

For  it  was  not  genius  alone  that  here  accomplished  the 
apparently  impossible  ;  it  was  genius,  by  that  best  of  earthly 
taskmasters,  character,  put  under  the  yoke,  and  kept  under 
the  yoke,  of  long  and  strenuous  toil.  The  Schiller-Goethe 
correspondence,  for  the  period  during  wdiich  its  author  was 
struggling  with  his  Herculean  task  of  the  Wallenstein,  forms 
an  instructive  and  an  insj^iring  record  of  intellectual  hard 
work,  done  by  high-born  genius  loyally  obeying  the  prick  of 
conscience  and  of  will.  Here  is  one  cry  of  straitness  and 
travail  for  his  Wallenstein,  uttered  by  Schiller  in  the  ears  of 
Goethe,  under  date  November,  1790: 

[In  Wallenstein]  I  have  to  deal  with  tlie  most  refractory  subject,  from 
which  I  cannot  extract  any  thing  except  by  heroic  perseverance.  And  as, 
in  addition  to  this,  I  have  not  the  commonest  opportunities  for  coming  into 
closer  contact  with  life  and  men,  and  hence  of  getting  out  of  my  own  nar- 
row existence  into  a  wider  sphere,  I  am  forced  to  make  my  feet  take  the 
place  of  hands,  like  an  animal  that  lacks  certain  organs.  But  truly  I  lose 
an  incalculable  amount  of  strength  and  time  by  having  to  overcome  tlie 
barriers  of  my  accidental  position,  and  in  having  to  prepare  my  own  in- 
struments in  order  to  comprehend  so  foreign  a  subject  as  the  living  world, 
and  more  especially  the  political  world,  is  to  me. 


Schiiier.  24*7 

Schiller,  under  the  influence  of  Goethe,  was  constantly 
struggling  to  get  outside  of  himself  and  become  "objective," 
as  the  word  is.  That  was  Goethe's  own  idea  in  literary 
character  for  himself ;  and  the  general  opinion  seems  to  be 
that  Goethe  succeeded  in  realizing  his  ideal.  At  any  rate,  he 
urged  and  encouraged  Schiller  to  strive  after  it.  Schiller 
made  occasional  cheerful  and  hopeful  note  of  his  own  con- 
scious growth  in  ability  to  show  things,  rather  as  he  saw 
them  about  hiin,  than  as  he  felt  them  within  him — in  short, 
to  be  an  objective  instead  of  a  subjective  poet,  an  artist  in- 
stead of  a  sentimentalist,  in  literature.     He  writes  to  Goethe  : 

As  regards  the  spirit  in  wiiicii  I  am  working  [in  the  WallensteinJ,  you 
will  probably  be  satisfied  with  what  I  have  done.  I  shall  have  no  diffi- 
culty in  keeping  my  subject  outside  of  myself  and  with  only  giving  the 
objective.  .  .  .  The  principal  character,  as  well  as  most  of  the  secondary 
ones,  I  have  as  yet  really  treated  with  tiie  pure  love  of  an  artist.  It  is 
only  the  character  next  to  the  chief  one — the  younger  Piccolomiui — in 
whom  I  feci  any  persona!  interest. 

Seldom  have  men  of  letters  more  diligently  studied  the 
principles  of  literary  art  than  did  Schiller  and  Goethe  to- 
gether. Their  published  correspondence  is  one  almost  con- 
tinuous record  of  their  experiences,  observations,  reflections, 
discoveries,  experiments,  and  guesses,  in  this  line.  Schiller, 
still  in  connection  with  his   Wallenstem,  writes  to  Goethe: 

I  have,  during  tliese  last  days,  been  rending  [certain  Greek  tragedies]. 
...  It  struck  me  that  the  ciiaracters  in  ihc  Greek  tragedy  are  more  or 
less  ideal  masks,  and  not  actual  individuals,  such  as  I  find  in  Shakes- 
peare's, and  also  in  your,  dranuis.  .  .  .  Truth  does  not  suffer  at  all  l\y  tliis. 

Wallenstein,  the  protagonist  in  Schiller's  play,  was  a  be- 
liever and  a  practitioner  in  astrology.  How  to  introduce  the 
astrological  element  effectively  into  his  drama  was  a  serious 
problem  with  Schiller.  In  attempting  the  solution,  he  by  no 
means  depended  solely  on  his  own  genius;  he  read  for  his 
purpose.     He  writes  to  Goethe  : 

Among  some  cabalistic  and  astrological  works,  [I  found  one  that] 
helped  me  considerably  in  my  astrological  studies.  ...  T  am  not  without 
hopes  of  being  able  to  give  this  astrological  nuilter  poetical  dignity. 


248  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

The  following  report  of  progress,  under  date  subsequent, 
has  its  implication  of  the  sometimes  vain  labor  involved  in 
producing  a  great  poetical  work.     To  Goethe: 

All  is  still  going  on  quite  satisfactorily  with  the  work  [  Wallensteiri],  and 
although  a  poet  cannot  set  any  more  value  upon  his  first  draught  than  a 
merchant  upon  such  of  his  goods  as  are  at  sea,  still  I  nevertheless  tiiink 
that  I  have  not  been  wasting  my  time. 

Of  a  later  practical  problem  with  the  Wallenstein,  Schiller 
announces  thus  to  Goethe  his  success  in  finding  a  solution : 

I  have  fortunate]}'  at  last  been  able  so  to  arrange  things  that  it  [the 
"Death  of  Wallenstein  "  the  third  and  last  part]  has  five  acts  also. 

The  last  two  parts  were  both  thus  made  to  conform  to  the 
conventional  rule  for  tragedy.  The  first  part,  the  prologue, 
so  to  style  it,  was  simply  a  succession  of  scenes,  not  divided 
into  acts.  It  was  near  three  years  after  the  date  of  the  first 
note  given  here  from  Schiller  about  his  Wallenstein,  that  the 
poet  wrote  (one  can  imagine  with  what  a  sigh!)  as  follows  to 
Goethe— the  date  is  March  19,  1799: 

The  mass  whicli  has  hitherto  drawn  and  held  me  to  it  has  now  gone, 
and  I  feel  as  if  I  were  hanging  indefinitely  in  empty  space.  At  the  same 
time  I  feel  also  as  if  it  were  absolutely  impossible  for  me  ever  to  produce 
any  thing  again. 

Schiller  was  not  the  man  to  abide  long  in  a  feeling  of  im- 
potence such  as  he  thus  described.  He  rallied  from  that  ex- 
haustion, and  produced  within  the  two  succeeding  years 
three  new  dramas,  besides  other  poems.  Schiller  was  a  tire- 
less spirit.  Nothing  short  of  death  could  quench  his  ardor 
for  achievement. 

The  subject  of  the  Wallenstein  is  the  treason  and  the 
death  of  the  hero.  Wallenstein — or  "\Valdstein,  as  exact  his- 
torical scholars  now  spell  the  name — was  a  conspicuous  figure 
in  the  Thirty  Years'  War.  He  seems  to  have  been  a  truly 
great  man — great,  but  selfish.  In  Schiller's  drama,  he  com- 
mands your  admiration,  without  commanding  your  sympathy. 
Dramatic  literature  hardly  contains  a  finer  exhibition  of 
haughty  dominating  power  in  character,  than  Schiller   has 


Schiller.  249 

given  us  in  his  representation  of  Wallenstein.  There  must 
have  been  something  great  in  the  soul  of  the  poet  \vho  was 
capable  of  such  a  conception. 

The  historic  Waldstein  may  be  studied  to  advantage  in 
Gindely's  History  of  the  Thirty  Years'  War,  recently,  with 
general  applause  from  the  critics,  translated  from  German 
into  English  by  the  veteran  Professor  Ten  Brook,  formerly 
of  the  University  of  Michigan. 

Whether  Wallenstein  was  really  guilty  or  not  of  the  treason 
with  which  he  was  charged,  is  one  of  the  vexed  questions  of 
history.  The  tendency  of  opinion  has  been  to  acquit  him. 
But  Gindely  condemns  him,  intimating  that  he  holds  in  re- 
serve for  future  use  documentary  evidence  that  will  close  the 
question,  and  close  it  against  Wallenstein,  forever.  Schiller, 
we  think,  was  sufHciently  justified  in  treating  his  subject  as 
he  did.  He  treats  the  treason  of  Wallenstein  against  his 
emperor  as  a  thing  thought  of  by  him,  dallied  with,  but 
finally  resolved  upon  only  through  stress  of  outward  circum- 
stance. All  accounts  agree  that  Wallenstein  was  from  boy- 
hood of" a  peculiarly  heady  and  ungovernable  spirit.  "Why 
was  I  not  born  a  prince  ?  Nobody  should  punish  me  then," 
the  boy  of  seven  indignantly  exclaimed  to  his  mother,  when 
she  was  correcting  him  for  some  fault.  Ilis  parentage  was 
Protestant ;  but,  left  early  an  orphan,  he  became  ;i  Catholic, 
under  the  infiuence  of  an  uncle  whose  ward  he  was.  His 
greed  of  power  was  insatiable,  and  the  power  he  gained  was 
incomparably  greater  than  that  of  any  other  subject  of  the 
emperor.  He  was  able  to  dictate  conditions  to  his  sovereign, 
who  actually  allowed  him  to  levy  troops  and  wage  war  inde- 
pendently of  himself.  Wallenstein  reached  a  pitch  of  pride 
and  power  so  high  that  to  his  emperor  proposing  to  him  a 
command  under  the  archduke,  the  emperor's  own  son,  he 
haughtily  replied,  with  blasphemy,  "  I  would  not  serve  under 
Almighty  God."  Against  Wallenstein,  as  the  right  arm  of 
the  Roman  C/atholics,  was  j)itted  Gustavus  Adolphus,  of 
Sweden,  as  the  Protestant  champion.  Of  Gustavus  Adoij)hus, 
and  of  (Gustavus  Adoljjhus  aloiu-,  Wallenstein  stood   in  some 


250  Classic  German   Course  in  English. 

wholesome  awe.  Gustavus  bad  at  length  fallen  in  battle, 
when  Wallenstein,  disaffected  toward  the  emperor,  made  his 
treasonable  advances  toward  the  Swedes.  The  latter  were 
wary  and  suspicious;  for  Wallenstein  had  in  stratagem  made 
feints  of  such  disposition  before.  The  following  soliloquy, 
attributed  by  Schiller  to  Wallenstein,  will  at  the  same  time 
sketch  strikingly  to  the  reader  the  previous  course  of  this 
man's  history,  and  disjalay  the  poet's  conception  of  his  char- 
acter. The  situation  has  grown  desperate  for  Wallenstein. 
There  has  been,  most  unexpectedly,  a  general  defection  from 
his  cause,  on  the  part  of  leaders  profoundly  trusted  by  him. 
Octavio  Piccolomini,  the  chief  of  these,  has  accused  him  to 
the  emperor  of  meditated  treason.  Wallenstein,  thus  de- 
serted and  thus  endangered,  strengthens  himself  by  recall- 
ing his  own  achievements  in  the  past.     Here  is  his  soliloquy: 

\^Scene — a  sjmcmts  room  in  the  Duke  op  Friedland's  j:3a?ace.] 

Wal.  [m  armor.]  Tliou  hast  gained 

Thy  point,  Oclavio !     Once  more  am  I 
Almost  as  friendless  as  at  Regensbnrg. 
Tliere  I  had  nothing  left  me,  but  myself — 
But  what  one  man  can  do  you  have  now  experience. 
The  twigs  have  yon  hewed  off,  and  here  I  stand 
A  leafless  trunk.     But  in  the  sap  within 
Lives  the  creating  power,  and  a  new  world 
May  sprout  forth  from  it.     Once  alread}'  liave  I 
Proved  myself  worth  an  army  to  you — I  alone  I 
Before  the  Swedish  strength  your  troops  had  melted ; 
Beside  the  Lech  sank  Tilly,  your  last  hope ; 
Into  Bavaria,  like  a  winter  torrent. 
Did  that  Gustavus  pour,  and  at  Vienna 
In  his  own  palace  did  tl;e  emperor  tremble. 
Soldiers  were  scarce,  for  still  the  multitude 
Follow  the  luck  ;  all  eyes  were  turned  on  me, 
Their  lielper  in  distress;   the  Emperor's  pride 
Bowed  himself  down  before  the  man  he  had  injured. 
'Twas  I  must  rise,  and  with  creative  word 
Assemble  forces  in  the  desolate  camps. 
I  did  it.     Like  a  god  of  war,  my  name 
Went  through  the  world.     The  drum  was  beat — and  lo  I 
The  plough,  the  worksliop  is  forsaken ;  all 


Schiller.  251 

Swarm  to  Ihe  old  familiar  long-loved  banners ; 

And  as  tlie  wood-choir,  ricli  in  melody, 

Assemble  quick  around  the  bird  of  wonder. 

When  first  Ids  throat  swells  with  his  magic  song, 

So  did  tiie  warlike  youth  of  Germany 

Crowd  in  around  the  image  of  my  eagle. 

I  feel  myself  the  being  that  I  was. 

It  is  the  soul  that  builds  itself  a  body, 

And  Friedland's  camp  will  not  remain  unfilled. 

"  Friedland,"  of  course,  is  Walleiistein,  Avho  was  Duke,  or 
Prince,  of  Friedland.  The  "  bird  of  wonder"  is  the  phoenix, 
a  fabled  fowl,  sole  of  its  kind,  and,  when  a])pearing,  an  object 
of  general  admiration.  Milton  [Paradise  Lost,  V,,  2%%,Jf.) 
likens  to  a  phoenix  the  descending  archangel  Raphael,  in  the 

lines, 

Sails  between  worlds  and  worlds  .  .  . 

.  .  .  till  within  soar 
Of  towering  eagles,  to  all  tlie  fowls  he  seems 
A  phoenix,  gazed  by  all  as  that  sole  bird, 
Etc. 

Two  subordinate  officers  of  Wallenstein — as  the  plot  against 
plot  ripens,  and  as  the  hero  unconsciously  nears  his  own  doom 
of  death  by  traitorous  assassination — talk  with  each  other. 
One  of  them  recalls  his  old  master's  youth  and  manhood,  as 
familiar  to  him  through  former  approximately  equal  fellow- 
ship with  Wallenstein.  The  following  lines,  from  this  man's 
half-relenting  reminiscence  of  the  past,  dash  off  a  rapid  and 
vivid  sketch  of  powerful  character.  Butler,  who  interi-upts 
Gordon  with  a  question,  is  an  Irishman,  once  wounded  in  his 
pride  by  Wallenstein,  and  now  ready  to  revenge  himself  by 
compassing  his  chieftain's  death : 

Gordon.  A  youth  who  scarce  had  seen  his  twentietli  year 
Was  Wallenstein,  when  he  and  I  were  friemts: 
Yet  even  then  he  had  a  daring  soul ; 
His  frame  of  mind  was  serious  and  severe 
Beyond  his  years  ;  his  dreams  were  of  groat  objects. 
He  walked  amidst  us  of  a  silent  spirit, 
Communing  with  himself:  yet  I  have  known  liim 
Transporlod  on  a  sudden  into  iilteranco 


252  Classic  German  Course  hi  English. 

Of  strange  conceptions  ;  kindling  into  splendor 
His  soul  revealed  itself,  and  he  spake  so 
That  we  looked  round  perplexed  upon  each  other, 
Not  knowing  whether  it  were  craziness, 
Or  whetlier  it  were  a  god  that  spoke  in  iiiin. 
Butler.  But  was  it  where  he  fell  two  story  high 

From  a  window-ledge,  on  whioli  he  had  fallen  asleep; 
And  rose  up  free  from  injury  ?     From  tliis  day 
(It  is  reported)  he  betrayed  clear  marks 
Of  a  distempered  fancy. 
Gordon.  He  became 

Doubtless  more  self-enwrapt  and  melandioly  ; 

He  made  himself  a  Catholic.    Marvellously 

His  marvellous  preservation  had  transformed  him. 

Thenceforth  he  held  himself  for  an  exempted 

And  privileged  being,  and,  as  if  he  were 

Incapable  of  dizziness  or  fall. 

He  ran  along  the  unsteady  rope  of  life. 

But  now  our  destinies  drove  us  asunder: 

He  paced  with  rapid  step  the  way  of  greatness, 

Was  Count,  and  Prince,  Duke-regent,  and  Dictator. 

And  now  is  all,  all  tliis  too  little  for  him ; 

He  stretches  forth  his  hand  for  a  king's  crown, 

And  plunges  in  unfathomable  ruin. 

Another  soliloquy  of  Wallenstein's  gives  us  the  working 
within  his  breast  of  doubtful  thought  and  motive,  while, 
caught  in  the  current  of  circumstance — a  current  fast  rush- 
ing on  into  resistless  rapids  of  destiny — he  revolves  the  ques- 
tion, like,  but  so  unlike,  Hamlet's :  "  To  do  or  not  to  do." 
The  passage  is  a  powerful  one  : 

Wal.  [m  soliloquy.']  Is  it  possible  ? 

Is't  so?     I  can  no  longer  what  I  would? 

No  longer  draw  back  at  my  liking  !     I 

Must  do  the  deed  because  I  tUoiKjht  of  it. 

And  fed  this  heart  here  with  a  dream  ?     Because 

I  did  not  scowl  temptation  from  my  presence. 

Dallied  with  thoughts  of  possible  fulhllment. 

Commenced  no  movement,  left  all  time  uncertain, 

And  only  kept  the  road,  the  access  open? 

By  the  great  God  of  heaven !  it  was  not 

My  serious  meaning,  it  was  ne'er  resolved. 

I  but  amused  myself  with  tliinking  of  it. 


Schiller.  253 

The  free-will  tempted  nic,  the  power  to  do 

Or  not  to  do  it.     Was  it  criminal 

To  make  the  fancy  minister  to  hope, 

To  fill  the  air  with  pretty  toys  of  air, 

And  clutch  fantastic  sceptres  moving  toward  me? 

Was  not  the  will  kept  free  ?     Beheld  I  not 

The  road  of  duty  close  beside  me— but 

Oue  little  step.'and  once  more  I  was  in  itl 

Where  am  I?     Whither  have  I  been  transported  ? 

No  road,  no  track  behind  me,  but  a  wall, 

Impenetrable,  insurmountable. 

Rises  obedient  to  the  spells  I  muttered 

And  meant  not — my  own  doings  tower  beliind  me. 

[^Pauses  and  remains  in  deep  thought] 
A  punishable  man  I  seem  ;  the  guilt, 
Try  what  I  will,  I  cannot  roll  off  from  me ; 
The  equivocal  demeanor  of  my  life 
Bears  witness  on  my  prosecutor's  part 
And  even  my  purest  acts  from  purest  motives 
Suspicion  poisons  with  malicious  gloss. 
Were  1  that  thing  for  which  I  pass,  that  traitor, 

A  goodly  outside  I  had  sure  reserved. 

Had  drawn  the  cov'rings  thick  and  double  round  me, 

Been  calm  and  chary  of  my  utterance. 

But  being  conscious  of  the  innocence 

Of  my  intent,  my  nncorrupted  will, 

I  gave  way  to  my  humors,  to  my  passion : 

Bold  were  my  words,  because  my  deeds  were  not. 

Now  every  planless  measure,  chance  event, 

Tlie  threat  of  rage,  the  vaunt  of  joy  and  triumph, 

And  all  the  May-games  of  a  heart  o'erflowing, 

Will  they  connect,  and  weave  them  all  together 

Into  one  web  of  treason;  all  will  be  plan, 

My  eye  ne'er  absent  from  the  far-off  mark, 

Step  tracing  step,  each  step  a  politic  progress ; 

And  out  of  all  they'll  fabricate  a  charge 

So  specious,  that  I  must  myself  stand  dumb. 

1  am  caught  in  my  own  net,  and  only  force. 

Naught  but  a  sudden  7-ent  can  liberate  me. 
[Pauses  agai7i.] 

How  else!  since  that  the  heart's  unbiased  instinct 

Impelled  nie  to  the  daring  deed,  wiiich  now 

Necessity*,  self-preservation,  orders. 

Stern  is  the  on-look  of  Necessity ; 


254  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Not  without  shudder  may  a  human  hand 

Grasp  tlie  mysterious  urn  of  destiny. 

My  deed  was  mine,  remaining  in  ni_y  bosom, 

Once  suffered  to  escape  from  its  safe  corner 

Within  the  heart,  its  nursery  and  birthplace, 

Sent  forth  into  tiie  foreign,  it  belongs 

Forever  to  tliose  sly,  malicious  powers 

"Whom  never  art  of  man  conciliated. 
[Paces  in   agitation  through  the  chamber,  then  jmuses,  and,  after  the  jxiuse, 
breaks  out  again  into  audible  soliloquy.] 

What  is  th}'  enterprise?  th)'  aim?  thy  object? 

Hast  honestly  confessed  it  to  tliyself  ? 

Power  sealed  on  a  quiet  throne  thou'dst  shake, 

Power  on  an  ancient  consecrated  throne, 

Strong  in  possession,  founded  in  old  custom ; 

Power  by  a  thousand  tough  and  stringj'^  roots 

Fixed  to  the  people's  pious  nursery-faith. 

This,  this  will  be  no  strife  of  strength  with  strength. 

That  feared  I  not.     I  brave  each  combatant, 

Whom  I  can  look  on,  fixing  eye  to  eye. 

Who.  full  himself  of  courage,  kindles  courage 

In  me  too.     'Tis  a  foe  invisible, 

The  which  I  fear — a  fearful  enemy, 

Which  in  the  human  heart  opposes  me. 

By  its  coward  fear  alone  made  fearful  to  me. 

Not  that,  which  full  of  life,  instinct  with  power, 

Makes  known  its  present  being,  that  is  not 

The  true,  the  perilously  formidable. 

0  no!  it  is  the  common,  the  quite  common. 

The  thing  of  an  eternal  yesterday. 

What  ever  was,  and  evermore  returns. 

Sterling  to-morrow,  for  to-day  'twas  sterling  I 

For  of  the  wholly  common  is  man  made. 

And  custom  is  his  nurse!     Woe  then  to  them 

Who  laj''  irreverent  hands  upon  his  old 

House  furniture,  the  dear  inheritance 

From  his  forefathers.     For  time  consecrates  ; 

And  what  is  gray  with  age  becomes  religion. 

Be  in  possession,  and  thou  hast  the  right, 

And  sacred  will  the  many  guard  it  for  thee  ! 
[7b  the  jMge  vjho  here  enters.] 

The  Swedish  officer  ? — Well,  let  him  enter. 
\^The  page  exit.  Wallexsteijt  fixes  his  eye  in  deep  thought  on  the  door.] 

Yet  is  it  pure — as  yet! — the  crime  has  come 


Schiller.  255 

Not  o'er  this  threshold  yet — ?o  slender  is 
The  boundary  that  divideth  life's  two  paths. 

Our  readers  will  perceive  how  it  was  that  the  Wallenstein 
c;rew  to  such  volume  under  the  author's  hands.  Schiller  had 
what  one  dislikes  to  call  the  national  fault  of  prolixity.  His 
intensity  he  maintains,  but  it  is  a  prolix  intensity.  If  some- 
how the  WallenMein  could  be  condensed  one  half,  or  even 
more,  what  a  gain  there  would  be  in  impression  and  in 
power  ! 

The  characters  in  the  drama  are  mostly  historical ;  but  Max 
Piccolomini,  son  to  Octavio,  and  Thekla,  Wallenstein's 
daughter,  loved  by  Max  and  loving  him,  are  exceptions. 
These  are  imaginations  of  the  poet's  brain.  Tlie  mutual 
relation  of  the  two,  and  their  tragic  fate,  constitute  an  episode 
in  the  drama,  which  the  action  could  have  spared,  perhaps 
even  with  gain  to  the  unity  and  the  progress  of  the  plot ; 
but  to  part  with  the  episode  would  be  a  loss  to  the  poetry. 
Our  readers  will  rememljer  that  Schiller,  trying  hard  against 
himself  to  regard  his  personages  all  with  the  indifference  of 
the  artist,  acknowledged  that,  in  the  case  of  Max  Piccolomini, 
he  had  not  succeeded.  Max,  the  poet  loved  as  the  child  of  his 
own  imagination.  A  high,  heroic,  chivalrous,  ideal  character 
Schiller  had  to  gratify  himself  with  introducing  into  nearly 
every  one  of  his  dramas.  The  noblest  success  in  this  kind 
that  he  ever  achieved,  it  seems  to  us  that  he  achieved  in  his 
Max  Piccolomini.  Max  is  so  entirely  the  soul  of  truth  and 
honor  that  he  will  not  believe  his  father  telling  him  that 
Wallenstein  is  a  traitor  to  the  emperor.  His  master  has, 
he  insists,  been  misrepresented,  maligned,  to  his  father. 
Wallenstein,  in  order  to  attach  the  young  officer  more 
securely  to  his  own  interest,  had  allowed  Max  to  hope  that 
he  might  eventually  win  the  hand  of  his  daughter.  Secretly, 
the  father's  ambition  for  her  aspired  to  nothing  beneath  a 
royal  bridegroom.  Max  at  last  has  an  interview  with  Wallen- 
stein, in  which  that  chieftain  himself  unfolds  to  the  young 
man  his  treasoiial)le  purposes.  In  the  dialogue  that  follows 
Max's  pure   heart  speaks  out  nobly.     Surely  it   was  a  fine 


256  Classic  Ger)nan  Course  in  English. 

self -gratification  that  the  poet  insisted  upon  from  the  artist, 
when  Schiller  would  be  "subjective"  enough  to  write  this 
dialogue.  Wallenstein  has  bidden  Max  take  time  to  recollect 
himself  before  choosing  his  part.     Now  Schiller: 

[Wallenstein  rises  and  retires  at  the  hack  of  the  stage.     Max  remaiiis  for 
a  long  time  motionless,  in  a  trance  of  excessive  anguish.     At  his  first  motion 
Wallenstein  returns  and  places  himself  before  Jiiin.] 
Max.  My  General,  this  day  thou  makest  me 

Of  age  to  speak  in  my  own  right  and  person, 

For  till  tills  day  I  have  been  spared  the  trouVjle 

To  find  out  my  own  road.     Thee  have  I  followed 

With  most  implicit  unconditional  fnith. 

Sure  of  the  right  patli  if  I  followed  iliee. 

To-day,  for  the  first  time,  dost  thou  refer 

Me  to  myself,  and  forcest  me  to  make 

Election  between  thee  and  my  own  heart. 
Wal.  Soft  cradled  thee  thy  Fortune  till  to-day: 

Thy  duties  thou  couldst  exercise  in  sport, 

Indulge  all  lovely  instincts,  act  forever 

With  undivided  heart.     It  can  remain 

No  longer  thus.     Like  enemies,  the  roads 

Start  from  each  other.     Duties  strive  with  duties. 

Thou  must  needs  choose  thy  part}-  in  the  war 

Which  is  now  kindling  'twixt  thy  friend  and  him 

Who  is  thy  Emperor. 
Max.  War  I  is  that  the  name  ? 

War  is  as  frightful  as  heaven's  pestilence. 

Yet  it  is  good,  is  it  heaven's  will  as  that  is. 

Is  that  a  good  war,  which  against  the  Emperor 

Thou  wagest  with  the  Emperor's  own  army  ? 

0  God  of  heaven  !  wliat  a  change  is  this. 

Beseems  it  me  to  offer  such  persuasion 

To  thee,  who  like  the  fixed  star  of  the  pole, 

Wert  all  I  gazed  at  on  life's  trackless  ocean  ? 

0!  what  a  rent  thou  makest  in  my  heart! 

The  ingrained  instinct  of  old  reverence, 

The  holy  liabit  of  obediency. 

Must  I  pluck  live  asunder  from  thy  name? 

Nay,  do  not  turn  thy  countenance  upon  me — 

It  always  was  as  a  god  looking  at  me  I 

Duke  Wallenstein,  its  power  is  not  departed : 

The  senses  still  are  in  tliy  bonds,  although, 

Bleeding,  the  soul  hath  freed  itself. 


ISchiller.  257 

Wal.  Max,  liear  rae. 

Max.   0!   do  it  not,  I  pray  tliee.  do  it  not! 

Tliere  is  a  pure  and  noble  soul  within  thee, 

Knows  not  of  this  unblest,  unhicky  doing. 

Thy  will  is  ciiaste,  it  is  thy  fancy  only 

"Which  iiath  polluted  thee — and  innocence, 

It  will  not  let  itself  be  driven  away 

From  that  world-awing  aspect.     Thou  wilt  not, 

Thou  canst  not,  end  in  this.     It  would  reduce 

All  human  creatures  to  disloyalty 

Against  the  nobleness  of  their  own  nature. 

'Twill  justify  the  vulgar  misbelief, 

Which  holdeth  nothing  noble  in  free  will. 

And  trusts  itself  to  impotence  alone 

Made  powerful  only  in  an  unknown  power. 
Wal.  The  world  will  judge  me  sternly,  I  expect  it. 

Already  iiave  I  said  to  my  own  self 

All  thou  canst  say  to  me.     Who  but  avoids 

Th'  extreme, — can  he  by  going  round  avoid  it  ? 

But  here  there  is  no  choice.     Yes— 1  must  use 

Or  suflfer  violence — so  stands  the  case, 

There  remains  nothing  possible  but  that. 
Miu.  0  that  is  never  possible  for  thee  I 

'Tis  the  last  desperate  resource  of  those 

Cheap  souls,  to  whom  their  honor,  their  good  name, 

Is  their  poor  saving,  their  last  worthless  keep, 

Which,  having  staked  and  lost,  they  stake  themselves 

In  the  mad  rage  of  gaming.     Thou  art  rich, 

And  glorious:  with  an  unpolluted  heart 

Thou  canst  make  conquest  of  whate'er  seems  highest ; 

Bat  he,  who  once  hath  acted  infamy. 

Does  nothing  more  in  this  world.  ^ 
Wal.  [graaiis  his  hand].  Calmly,  Maxl 

Much  that  is  great  and  excellent  will  wo 

Perform  together  yet.     And  if  we  only 

Stand  on  the  height  with  dignity,  'tis  soon 

Forgotten,  Max,  by  what  road  wo  ascended. 

Believe  me,  many  a  crown  shines  spotless  now, 

That  yet  was  deeply  suUied  in  the  winning. 

To  the  evil  spirit  doth  the  earth  belong. 

Not  to  the  good.     All,  that  the  powers  divine 

Send  from  above,  are  universal  blessings  : 

Their  light  rejoices  us,  their  air  refreshes. 

But  never  yet  was  man  enriched  by  tliem: 


,258  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

In  their  eternal  realm  no  propertij 
Is  to  be  struggled  for — all  there  is  general. 
The  jewel,  the  all-valued  gold  we  win 
From  the  deceiving  Powers,  depraved  in  nature, 
That  dwell  beneath  the  day  and  blessed  sun-light; 
Not  without  sacrifices  are  they  rendered 
Propitious,  and  there  lives  no  soul  on  earth 
That  e'er  retired  unsullied  from  their  service. 
Mux.  Whale'er  is  human,  to  the  human  being 
Do  I  allow — and  to  the  vehement 
And  striving  spirit  readily  I  pardon 
The  excess  of  action  ;  but  to  thee,  my  General  I 
Above  all  others  make  I  large  concession. 
For  thou  must  move  a  world,  and  be  the  master — 
He  kills  thee,  who  condemns  thee  to  inaction. 
So  be  it  then !  maintain  thee  in  thy  post 
By  violence.     Resist  the  Emperor, 
And  if  it  must,  be,  force  with  force  repel: 
I  will  not  praise  it,  yet  I  can  forgive  it. 
But  not — not  to  the  traitor — yes! — the  word 
Is  spoken  out — 

Not  to  the  traitor  can  I  yield  a  pardon. 
That  is  no  mere  exc  ss!  that  is  no  error 
Of  human  nature — that  is  wholly  diflerent; 
0  that  is  black,  black  as  the  pit  of  hell  I 

[Wallenstein  httrays  a  sudden  agitation.'] 
Thou  canst  not  hear  it  named,  and  wilt  thou  do  it  ? 

0  turn  back  to  thy  duty.     That  thou  canst, 

1  hold  it  certain.     Send  me  to  Vienna. 

I'll  make  thy  peace  for  thee  with  th'  Elmperor. 
He  knows  thee  not.     But  I  do  know  thee.     He 
Shall  see  thee,  Duke !  with  my  unclouded  eye, 
And  I  bring  back  his  confidence  to  thee. 

Wal.  It  is  too  late.     Thou  know'st  not  what  has  happeued. 

Max.  "Were  it  too  late,  and  were  things  gone  so  far, 
That  a  crime  only  could  prevent  tliy  fall. 
Then — fall !   fall  honorably,  even  as  thou  stood'st, 
Lose  tlie  command.     Go  from  the  stage  of  war. 
Thou  canst  with  splendor  doit — do  it,  too, 
"With  innocence.     Thou  hast  lived  mucli  for  others, 
At  length  live  thou  for  thy  own  self.     I  follow  thee. 
My  destiny  I  never  part  from  thine. 

Wal.  It  is  too  late  !     Even  now,  while  thou  art  losing 
Thy  words,  one  after  the  other  are  the  mile-stones 


Schiller.  259 

Left  fast  behind  bj-^  ni.y  post  couriers, 
"Who  bear  the  order  on  to  Prague  and  Egra. 

The  agony  of  resolution  is  after  all  not  over  for  Max.  A 
subsequent  scene  brings  Max  and  Thekla  together,  with  the 
countess,  Wallenstein's  sister,  of  course  aunt  to  Thekla.  Max, 
torn  with  suspense  and  despair,  cries  out  for  an  angel  from 
heaven  to  show  him  what  he  ought  to  do.  Then  he  be- 
thinks him  of  Thekla.  What  other  angel  than  Thekla  does  he 
need  ?  Now  follows  a  device  highly  characteristic  of  Schiller. 
Max  devolves  on  Thekla  the  burden  of  deciding  whether  he 
shall  go — that  is,  to  the  emperor;  or  stay — that  is,  with 
Wallenstein,  her  father.  At  first  blush,  this  seems  a  flaw  of 
imperfect  in  the  heroic  character  of  Max.  But  it  at  least 
brings  out  the  heroic  in  Thekla.  And  perliaps  the  dramatist 
could  in  no  other  way  better  relieve  his  hero  of  the  imputa- 
tion of  sacrificing  Tiiekla,  than  by  affording  her  the  opportu- 
nity of  sacrificing  herself.  The  two  together  are  equal  to 
their  dutj'  and  their  fate.  Or  shall  we  have  to  say  almost  equalV 
Max,  self-taught,  and  taught  by  Thekla,  abides,  indeed,  by  his 
faith  to  the  emperor.  But  is  it  a  perfect  triumph  of  truth 
and  nobleness  that  he  should  put  himself,  as  he  does,  at  the 
head  of  his  devoted  followers,  and,  leading  them,  purposely, 
in  an  attack,  foreknown  by  him  to  be  hopeless,  on  the  Swedes, 
perish  by  a  kind  of  suicide,  buried  under  mounds  of  the  dead 
immolated  with  their  leader,  and,  as  it  were,  immolated  by 
him  ?  Thekla,  too,  escapes  out  of  life  by  the  gate  of  suicide. 
This  is  commonplape  tragedy,  rather  than  triumphant  imagina- 
tion of  virtue  strong  enough  still  to  live  when  to  die  was 
much  more  desirable. 

Max,  yet  trustingly  and  affectionately  loyal  to  Wallen- 
stein, had  spoken  in  the  following  beautiful  strain  of  that 
great  man's  addiction  to  astrology.  The  passage  we  are  now 
abfjut  to  quote  is  a  celebrated  one.  We  have  been  using, 
and  we  still  use,  Coleridge's  translation  of  the  Wallenstein,  a 
work  not  without  its  faults  of  inexactness,  but  on  the  whole 
unapproachably  noble.  By  singular  exception,  Coleridge 
has  made,  in  the  ])resent  passage,  an  original   interpolation  of 


260  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

his  own,  extending  to  several  lines.  These  we  designate  to 
the  reader  by  printing  thera  in  italics.  The  separation,  how- 
ever, between  what  is  Coleridge  and  what  is  Schiller  is  not 
sharp ;  the  two  interlace  each  other,  both  at  tlie  beginning 
and  at  the  end.     Now  Max  on  Wallenstein  as  astrologer  : 

0  uever  rudely  will  I  blame  his  faith 

In  the  might  of  stars  and  angels  1    'Tis  not  merely 

The  human  being's  Pride  that  peoples  space 

With  life  and  nij'Siical  predominance  ; 

Since  liliewise  for  the  stricken  heart  of  Love 

This  visible  nature,  and  this  common  world, 

Is  all  too  narrow :  yea,  a  deeper  import 

Lurks  in  the  legend  told  my  infant  years 

Than  lies  upon  that  truth,  we  live  to  learn. 

For  fable  is  Love's  world,  his  home,  his  birthplace: 

Delightedly  dwells  he  'mong  fays  and  talismans, 

And  spirits;  and  delightedly  believes 

Divinities,  being  himself  divine. 

Tlie  intdligihle  forms  of  ancient  poets, 

The  fair  humanities  of  old  religion, 

The  power,  the  beauty,  and  the  majesty, 

That  had  their  haunts  in  dale,  or  inny  mountain. 

Or  forest  by  slow  stream,  or  p>fbhly  spring. 

Or  chasms,  and  ivaViy  depths,  all  these  have  va7iished; 

They  live  no  longer  in  the  faith  of  reason  ! 

But  still  the  heart  doth  need  a  language,  still 

Doth  tlie  old  instinct  bring  back  the  old  names, 

And  to  yon  starry  world  the}'  now  are  gone, 

Spirits  or  gods,  that  used  to  share  this  eartli 

With  man  as  with  their  friend ;  and  to  the  lover 

Yonder  thej'  move,  from  j-onder  visible  sky 

Shoot  influence  down :  and  even  at  this  day 

'Tis  Jupiter  who  brings  whale'er  is  great. 

And  Venus  who  brings  every  thing  that's  fair  I 

An  interpretation  thus  gentle  given  by  Max  to  Wallen- 
stein's  superstitious  study  of  the  stars— this,  together  with 
that  high-hearted  youth's  tragic  end  in  suicidal  battle,  im- 
parts an  indescribable  pathos  to  the  following  passage, 
which,  besides,  is  brooded  over,  deep  and  dark,  with  the 
shadow  of  Wallenstein's  own  now  imminent  doom.     It  is 


Schiller.  261 

the  night  in  which  Wallenstein  will  fall  under  the  stiil)s  of 
assassins.  His  sister  is  Avith  him,  and  he  is  watching  the 
sky.  Jupiter  is  his  star;  but  the  gloomy  duke's  words  at  one 
time  wander,  without  notice,  from  speaking  of  Jupiter  to 
speaking  of  young  Piccolomini,  whom  this  stern  man  really 
did  love  as  with  a  father's  affection.  We  know  of  nothing 
in  dramatic  poetry  pitched  in  a  key  of  loftier  pathos  than  is 
the  following  : 

WaL    \inoves  to  the  icindoio].    There  is  a  busy  motion  in  the  lieaven, 
The  wind  doth  cliase  the  tiag  upon  tlie  tower, 
Fast  sweep  the  clouds,  the  sickle  of  the  moon. 
Struggling,  darts  snatches  of  uncertain  light. 
No  form  of  star  is  visible !     That  one 
Wiiite  stain  of  light,  that  single  glimmering  yonder, 
Is  from  Cassiopeia,  and  therein 
Is  Jupiter.  ■  [.4  paiise.J     But  now 
The  blackness  of  the  troubled  element  hides  him ! 
[He  sinks  into  profound  mtlancholy,  and  looks  vacantly  into  the  distance.'\ 
Coun.    [looks  on  him  mournfully,  then  grasps  his  handl. 

What  art  thou  brooding  on? 
Wat.  Me  thinks. 

If  I  but  saw  him,  't  would  be  well  with  me. 
He  is  the  star  of  my  nativit}', 
And  often  marvellously  hath  his  aspect 
Shot  strength  into  my  heart. 
Cou7i.  Thou  'It  see  him  again. 

W(d.    [7-emains  for  a  \vhik  ivith  absent  mind,  then  assumes  a  livelier  man- 
ner, and  turns  suddenly  to  the  counttss'\. 
See  him  again  ?     0  never,  never  again. 
Coun.    How  ? 

Wal.  He  is  gone — is  dust. 

Coun.  "Whom  meanest  thou  then  ? 

Wal.    He,  the  more  fortunate!     Yea,  he  hath  finished! 
For  him  there  is  no  longer  any  future, 
His  life  is  i)rigiit — bright  without  spot  xtivas, 
And  cannot  cease  to  be.     No  ominous  hour 
Knocks  at  his  door  with  tidings  of  mishap. 
Far  off  is  he,  above  desire  and  fear; 
No  more  submitted  to  the  change  and  chance 
Of  the  unsteady-  planets.     0  'tis  well 
Witli  him!  b\it  who  knows  what  the  coming  liour 
Veiled  in  thick  diukness  brings  for  usl 


262  Classic  German  Course  hi  J£nglish. 

Coun.  Thou  speak'st 

Of  Piccoloniiiii.     What  was  his  dealli  ? 

Tlie  courier  had  just  left  thee  as  I  cauie. 
[  Walle.istei.n  by  a  motion  of  his  hand  inakts  signs  to  her  to  he  silent.^ 

Turn  not  thine  eyes  upon  the  backward  view, 

Let  us  look  foi'ward  into  sunny  days, 

Welcome  with  joyous  heart  the  victory. 

Forget  what  it  has  cost  thee.     Not  to-day. 

For  the  first  time,  thj'  friend  was  to  thee  dead ; 

To  thee  he  died,  when  first  he  parted  from  thee. 
Wal.   I  shall  grieve  down  this  blow,  of  that  I'm  conscious  : 

What  does  not  man  grieve  down  ?     From  the  liighest, 

As  from  the  vilest  tiling  of  ever}^  day 

He  learns  to  wean  himself;  for  the  strong  hours 

Conquer  him.     Yet  I  feel  what  I  have  lost 

In  liim.     The  bloom  is  vanished  from  my  life. 

For  0 !  he  stood  beside  me,  like  my  youth. 

Transformed  for  me  the  real  to  a  dream, 

Clothing  the  palpable  and  familiar 

With  golden  e.xhaUitions  of  the  dawn. 

Whatever  fortunes  wait  my  future  toils, 

The  beautiful  is  vanished — and  returns  not. 

We  need  only  indicate  the  catastrophe  by  giving  a  frag- 
ment of  dialogue  between  the  conspirators.  The  actual 
assassination  takes  place  unseen,  but  it  treads  immediately 
on  the  heels  of  the  following  significant  exchange  of  senti- 
ment between  an  assassin  who  halts  and  an  assassin  who 
urges.     It  is  Butler  who  urges,  and  it  is  Gordon  who  halts : 

Gar.    He  sleeps!     0  murder  not  the  holy  sleep  I 

But.    No !  he  shall  die  awake.     [Is  going.'] 

Gor.  His  heart  still  cleaves 

To  earthly  things:  he's  not  prepared  to  step 

Into  the  presence  of  his  God! 
But.    [going'].  God's  merciful ! 

Gor.    [holds  hivi].     Grant  him  but  this  night's  respite. 
But.    [hurrying  off].  The  next  moment 

Maj'^  ruin  all. 
Gor.    [holds  him  still].     One  hour  ! — 
But.  Unhold  me!     What 

Can  that  short  respite  profit  him  ? 
Gor.  0— Time 

Works  miracles.     In  one  hour  many  thousands 


Schiller.  263 

Of  grains  of  sand  run  out;  and  quick  as  they, 
Thought  follows  tliought  within  the  human  soul. 
Only  one  hour  !      Your  lieart  may  change  its  purpose, 
His  heart  may  change  its  purpose — some  new  tidings 
Maj'  come :  some  fortunate  event,  decisive, 
May  fall  from  Heaven  and  rescue  him.     0  what 
May  not  one  hour  achieve  ! 

The  very  end  of  the  drama  consists  in  a  stroke  of  expres- 
sion designed  by  the  author  to  suggest  a  mercenary  interest 
as  having  animated  the  elder  Piccolomini  in  his  fidelity  to  the 
emperor  against  AVallenstein,  A  letter  comes  from  the  em- 
peror addressed  to  Octavio  under  a  significant  title,  indicating 
that  the  faithful  informer  has  received  his  reward.  The 
superscription  reads:  "To  the  Prince  Piccolomini."  With 
those  words  uttered  aloud,  the  curtain  drops,  and  the  long 
trilogy  of  the  Wcdlefistein  is  ended. 

We  ought  to  say  that  of  the  tAvo  latter  divisions  of  the 
trilogy  the  first  is  called  The  Piccoloini/ii,  and  the  last  The 
Death  of  Wcdlenstein.  The  matter  of  these  is,  in  various 
editions,  variously  distributed.  We  have  ourselves,  in  our 
citations,  drawn  from  both  the  two  final  parts  as  these  appear 
in  the  arrangement  of  Coleridge's  translation. 

No  Shakespeare  was  Schillei".  The  German  does  not,  like 
the  Englishman,  cut  you  out  as  it  were  a  section  from  the 
real  world  of  men  and  of  events  and  transplant  this,  living 
and  breathing,  into  literature.  There  is  always  a  sentimental, 
a  romantic,  an  idealizing,  haze  hung  over  the  stage  on  which 
Schiller's  personages  move  and  speak.  You  see  his  men  and 
women  somewhat  as  if  they  walked  in  buskins  and  wore 
masks.  A  drama  thus  very  different  in  kind  from  the  Khig 
Henry  VIII.  of  Shakespeare  is  the  Wallenstein  of  Schiller. 
It  coint's  nearer  in  type  to  the  epic  style  of  Lucan's  Pharsalia/ 
or  to  that  style  dramatized  in  the  Polyeucte  oi  Corneille.  ])ut 
the  Wallenstein  is  purer  and  noblei-,  because  more  genuine, 
than  the  Polyeuct9,  and  it  is  purer  and  nobler,  because  less 
)»agan,  than  the  Pharsalla.  Schiller  understood  the  art  of 
tlieatric  effect,  and  there  is  therefore  real  interest  of  action  in 


234  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

the  Walletisfein  ;  but  the  author's  highest  power,  as  also  his 
highest  pleasure,  is  rather  to  be  oratorio  than  to  be  dramatic. 
In  this  Schiller  resembles  Corneille.  But  in  this  Schiller  sur- 
passes Corneille.  There  are  no  speeches  in  the  Polgeacte,  for 
instance,  comparable,  for  true  eloquence,  with  the  speeches 
of  the  Wallenstein.  Not  on  the  whole  adapted  to  be  a  popu- 
lar drama,  the  'Wallenstein  is,  for  thoughtful  and  elevated 
minds,  as  inexhaustibly  ministrant  to  a  certain  pathetic  and 
lofty  delight  as  any  thing  we  know  in  dramatic  literature. 
You  need  long  leisure  for  it,  with  a  mood  disengaged;  and 
then  the  solemn  mystery  of  power  and  pathos  in  the  play 
weaves  an  extraordinary  spell  of  dominance  over  your  imagi- 
nation and  your  heart.  If  it  was  not  written  by  the  greatest 
poet,  it  at  least  is  for  us  the  greatest  poem  in  German  lit- 
erature. 

When  Schiller  and  Goethe  are  brought  together  in  thought 
with  a  view  to  the  gauging  of  their  comparative  greatness,  it 
should  always  be  remembered  that,  for  Schiller,  twenty-five  em- 
barrassed and  impoverished  years  constituted  his  whole  term 
of  literaiy  activity;  while  Goethe,  after  he  began  to  produce, 
enjoyed  ease  and  affluence  for  more  than  sixty  years.  Con- 
sider duly  all  that  this  enormous  disparity  of  chance  for  the 
two  men  imports,  and,  comparing  then  the  actual  achieve- 
ment of  the  one  with  the  actual  achievement  of  the  other,  as- 
suredly you  will  feel  that  Schiller  rendered  a  full  better 
account  of  himself  than  did  Goethe. 

Narrowness,  with  intensity,  was  contrasted  in  Schiller 
against  breadth,  with  repose,  in  Goethe.  Schiller's  end  in  life 
was  literature,  and  fame  through  literature.  Goethe's  end  in 
life  was  the  culture  of  himself.  Of  neither  was  the  end  in 
life  the  noblest  that  might  have  been;  but  surely  Schiller's 
was  nobler  than  Goethe's.  Correspondingly,  too,  the  gain  to 
the  world,  alike  through  literary  product  bequeathed,  and 
through  example  exhibited  of  aim  and  of  character,  was,  as 
we  think,  more  from  the  less  of  the  two  than  it  was  from  the 
gi'eater.  For  Goethe  was  undoubtedly  planned  to  be  botli  a 
greater  man  and  a  greater  poet  than  Schiller. 


The  Romancers  q.nd  the  Romanticists.  2G5 


XI. 

THE    ROMANCERS   AND   THE    ROMANTICISTS. 

We  devote  the  present  chapter  to  an  assemblage  of  writers 
whom  we  may  call  the  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists. 
We  shall  be  able,  under  this  twofold  title,  to  group  a  number 
of  literary  na^nes,  most  of  whom  are  very  naturally  associated, 
though  as  to  some  of  them  we  may  have  to  use  a  little  gen- 
tle force  to  bring  them  thus  kindly  together, 

A  "Romancer"  is  not  of  course  the  same  thing  as  a  "Ro- 
manticist." A  Romanticist  is  one  who  adopts,  or  who  favors, 
a  certain  taste  and  style  in  litei-ary  composition ;  a  free,  sub- 
jective taste  and  style,  best  understood  by  the  contrast  of 
that  stricter,  severer  form  and  spirit  which  we  call  the  classic. 
A  Romancer,  as  we  choose  now  to  use  the  term,  is  one  Avho 
tells  stories  of  a  peculiar  sort,  stories  in  which  popular  legend 
and  a  weird  supernatural  enter  as  a  considerable  element. 

Let  us  begin  here  with  an  author  who  unites  in  himself 
the  character  of  Romancer  with  the  character  of  Romanti- 
cist—Ludwig  Tieck  (1773-1853.) 

While  Tieck's  living  fame  was  yet  in  its  most  vivid  fresh- 
ness and  brilliancy,  Goethe,  talking  with  Eckermann,  said  : 

Tieck  has  a  talent  of  great  importance,  and  no  one  can  be  more  sen- 
sible than  nij'self  to  his  extraordinary  merits.  Only  when  the}'  [the  more 
extravagant  Romanticists]  raise  iiim  above  himself,  and  place  him  on  a 
level  with  me,  they  are  in  error. 

Tieck  still  remains  for  us  a  sufficiently  important  name  to 

deserve  respectful,  though  it  must  be  hastening,  attention  at 

our  hands. 

This  writer  was  not   only  a  romanticist  in   literary  taste 

and  principle,  but  in  his  time  the  acknowledged  head  of  the 

romantic  school  in  German  literature.     It  was  easier  for  him 

to  be  vague  than  it  was  to  be  detinite,  and  he  liked  it  bettcM-. 

Moonlight   was    sweeter    tl)an    sunlight   to   Tieck.      Sclu-rer 

quotes  his  lines  : 

Magical  moonlit  night, 

Holding  the  senses  fettered, 

12 


266  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

Wondcifiil  fairy  world, 
Arise  in  tliy  glory — 

and  not  unaptly  calls  them  the  "  manifesto  of  Romanticism." 
This  romanticist,  however,  was  capable  of  the  most  homely 
realism  in  fiction  ;  and  such,  in  fact,  was  the  cast  of  his  later 
imaginative  Avork, 

Tieck  was  both  poet  and  prose  writer.  It  is  a§  prose  writer 
that  he  will  most  interest  our  readers.  From  among  Tieck's 
short  stories,  the  happiest  of  Avliich  are  probably  those  em- 
braced in  the  volume  entitled  Phantasus,  we  select  The  Fair- 
haired  Eckbert  to  exhibit  in  abridgement  here.  Carlyle  has 
translated  this  in  his  German  Romance.  We  use  his  trans- 
lation. 

The  scene  of  the  story  is  laid  in  the  Hartz  region.  The  hero  is 
a  knight,  familiarly  called  the  Fair-haired  Eckbert,  who  lived 
in  seemingly  contented  retirement  with  his  wife,  lamenting 
only  that  she  gave  him  no  children.  His  quiet  home  was  sel- 
dom visited  by  guests.  But  there  was  one  man,  Walther,  with 
whom  Eckbert  formed  a  close  relation  of  friendship — so 
close,  in  fact,  that  one  evening,  in  a  burst  of  confidence,  he 
begged  his  wife  Bertha  to  tell  their  trusted  guest  the  singular 
story  of  her  own  maiden  life.  This  she  did.  Having  run 
away  from  her  childhood's  home,  she  had  been  welcomed, 
after  wanderings  many  and  wide,  into  the  hospitality  of  a 
withered  old  woman's  lonely  cottage,  where  she  long  abode. 
The  old  woman  had  in  her  cottage  two  pet  familiars — a  bird 
and  a  dog.  In  this  compan}^,  and  seeing  no  other.  Bertha  lived 
and  was  happy.  Let  her  now  herself  take  up  her  story,  as 
Tieck  supplies  her  with  words.  Remember  that  Bertha  is 
telling  the  tale,  at  her  husband's  wish,  to  Walther  the  guest  : 

I  am  surprised  tliat  I  have  never  since  been  able  to  recall  the  dog's 
name,  a  very  odd  one.  often  as  I  then  pronounced  it. 

Four  years  I  liad  jiassed  in  this  way  (I  must  now  have  been  nearly 
twelve)  when  my  old  dame  began  to  put  more  trust  in  me,  and  at  length 
told  me  a  secret.  The  bird,  I  found,  laid  every  day  an  egg,  in  which  there 
was  a  pearl  or  a  jewel.  I  had  already  noticed  that  she  went  often  to  fettle 
privately  about  the  cage,  but  I  had  never  troubled  myself  further  on  the 


The  Romancers  and  the  liomanticists.  267 


subject.  She  now  gave  me  charge  of  gathering  tliese  eggs  in  her  ab- 
sence, and  carefullj'  storing  them  up  in  the  strange-looking  pots.  She 
would  leave  me  food,  and  sometimes  stay  away  for  weeks,  for  months. 

The  child  Bertha  had  her  books  to  read,  and,  (juickened  by 
these,  she  peopled  her  solitude  with  company  born  of  her 
brooding  brain.  The  bird  was  a  Aveird  one  that  could  sing  a 
song  with  words,  as  follows: 

Alone  in  wood  so  gay 
'Tis  good  to  stay, 
Morrow  like  to-da}-, 
Forever  and  aye : 
0,  I  do  love  to  stay 
Alone  in  wood  so  gay. 

Bertha  continues  her  tale,  Walther  listening: 

I  was  now  fourteen ;  it  is  the  misery  of  man  that  he  arrives  at  under- 
standing througli  the  loss  of  innocence.  I  now  saw  well  enough  that  it 
lay  with  me  to  take  the  jewels  and  the  bird  in  tiie  old  woman's  absence, 
and  go  forth  wiih  ihem  to  see  the  world  which  I  had  read  of.  Perhaps, 
too,  it  would  then  be  possible  that  I  might  meet  the  fairest  of  all  knights, 
who  forever  dwelt  hi  my  memory. 

Bertha  dallied  with  her  thoutjht  of  takino;  the  bird  and 
the  jewels  and  going  away  with  tliem — but  now  Tieck  once 
more,  through  his  Beriha  proceeding  with  her  story: 

One  day  she  [the  old  woman]  went  out  again,  telling  me  that  she  should 
he  away  on  this  occasion  longer  than  usual  ;  that  I  must  take  strict  charge 
of  every  thing,  and  not  let  the  lime  hang  heavy  on  my  hands.  I  had  a 
sort  of  fear  on  taking  leave  of  her,  for  I  felt  as  if  I  should  not  see  her 
any  more.  .  .  . 

I  knew  not  what  to  make  of  it;  the  dog  leaped  up  contiiinalh'  about 
me;  the  sunshine  spread  abroad  over  the  fields;  the  green  bircii-lrees 
glittered ;  I  always  felt  as  if  I  had  sometliing  I  must  do  in  haste ;  so  I 
caught  the  little  dog,  tied  him  up  in  the  room,  and  took  the  cage  with 
the  bird  under  my  arm.  The  dog  writhed  and  whined  under  this  unusual 
treatment;  he  looked  at  me  with  begging  ej-es,  but  I  feared  to  have  him 
with  me.  I  also  took  one  pot  of  jewels,  and  concealed  it  by  me  ;  the  rest 
I  left. 

The  bird  turned  its  head  very  strangely  when  T  cros.sed  the  threshold; 
the  dog  tugged  at  his  cord  to  follow  me.  but  he  wiis  forced  to  stay.  .  .  . 

...  In  a  pleasant   town    I   hired   a   sinall  house  and   garden,  and  took 


268  Classic  German  Coiirse  in  English. 


to  myself  a  maid.  I  forgot  tlie  old  vvomau  and  my  former  way  of  life 
rather  more,  and,  on  the  whole,  I  was  contented. 

For  a  long  while  the  bird  had  ceased  to  sing ;  I  was,  therefore,  not  a 
little  frightened  when  one  night  he  suddenly  began  again,  and  with  a  dif- 
ferent rhyme.     He  sang : 

Alone  in  wood  so  gay, 

Ah,  far  away! 

But  thou  wilt  say 

Some  other  day, 

'Twere  best  to  stay 

Alone  in  wood  so  gay. 

The  aspect  of  the  bird  distressed  me  greatly;  he  looked  at  me  continu- 
ally, and  'his  presence  did  me  ill.  There  was  now  no  end  to  his  song ; 
he  sang  it  louder  and  more  shrilly  than  lie  had  been  wont.  The  more  I 
looked 'at  him  the  more  he  pained  and  frightened  me;  at  last  I  opened 
the  cage,  put  in  my  hand,  and  grasped  his  neck ;  I  squeezed  my  fingers 
hard  together,  he  looked  at  me,  I  slackened  them  ;  but  he  was  dead.  \ 
buried  him  in  the  garden. 

After  this  there  often  came  a  fear  over  me  for  my  maid ;  I  looked  back 
upon  myself,  and  fancied  she  might  rob  or  murder  me.  For  a  long  while 
I  had  been  acquainted  with  a  young  kniglit  whom  I  altogether  liked  ;  I 
bestowed  on  Inm  my  hand,  and  with  this,  Sir  Walther,  ends  my  stor}'. 

Walther,    bidding    good-night,    incidentally    supplied    to 
Bertha  the  foi'gotten  name  of  the  dog.     He  said  : 

"  Many  thanks,  noble  lad}'.  I  can  well  figure  you  beside  your  singing 
bird,  and  how  you  fed  poor  little  Strohmian.''^ 

The  rest  of  Tieck's  story  of   IVie  Fair-haived  Eckhert  we 
force  into  brief  condensation  : 

.  .  .  From  that  day  Walther  visited  the  castle  of  his  friend  but  sel- 
dom. .  .  .  Eckbert  was  exceedingly  distressed  b}'  this  demeanor.  .  .  . 

.  .  .  One  morning  Bertha  sent  for  l>er  husband  to  her  bedside.  .  .  . 

•'  Dear  Eckbert,"  she  began,  "  I  must  disclose  a  secret  to  thee.  .  .  . 
That  night,  on  taking  leave,  Walther  all  at  once  said  to  me:  'I  can  well 
figure  you,  how  yon  fed  poor  liitle  Strohinian.''  ...  I  felt  a  shudder  that 
a  stranger  sliould  help  me  to  recall  the  memory  of  my  secrets.  What 
sayest  thou,  Eckbert?" 

Eckbert  .  .  spoke  some  words  of  comfort  to  her,  and  went  out.  .  .  . 
Walther  for  many  3'ears  had  been  his  sole  companion,  and  now  this 
person  was  the  only  mortal  in  the  world  whose  existence  pained  and  op- 
pressed him.  .  .  .  He  took  his  bow,  to  di.ssipate  these  thouglits,  and  went 
to  hunt.  ...   He  found  no  game,  and  this  embittered  his  ill-humor;  all 


The  Romancers  and  the  Roiuantlcists.  269 

at  once  lie  saw  an  object  moving  in  the  distance;  it  was  Walther  gatii- 
ering  moss  from  tlie  trnnks  of  trees.  Scarce  l<nowiug  what  he  did,  lie 
bent  liis  bow  ;  Walther  looked  around  and  gave  a  threatening  gesture, 
but  the  arrow  was  already  flying,  and  he  sank  transfixed  by  it. 

Eckbert  felt  relieved,  calmed,  j'et  a  certain  horror  drove  him  home  to  his 
castle.  It  was  a  good  waj'  distant ;  he  iiad  wandered  far  into  the  woods. 
On  arriving,  he  tbund  Bertha  dead ;  before  iier  death  she  had  spoken 
much  of  Walther  and  the  old  woman. 

For  a  great  while  after  tliis  occurrence  Eckbert  lived  iu  the  deepest 
solitude.  .  .  .  Tlie  murder  of  his  friend  arose  incessantly  before  his  mind  ; 
he  lived  in  tlie  anguish  of  continued  remorse. 

To  dissipate  liis  feelings  .  .  he  mingled  in  society  and  its  anuisemeiils. 
He  longed  for  a  friend  to  fill  the  void  in  his  soul.  .  .  . 

A  young  knight  named  Hugo  made  advances  to  the  silent,  melancholy 
Eckbert,  and  appeared  to  have  a  true  affection  for  him.  Eckbert  .  . 
met  the  knight's  friendsliip  with  the  greater  readiness,  the  less  lie  had 
anticipated  it.  The  two  .  .  in  all  companies  got  together.  In  a  word, 
they  seemed  inseparable. 

...  On  a  solitary  ride  Eckbert  disclosed  his  whole  history  to  Hugo, 
and  asked  if  he  could  love  a  murderer.  Hugo  seemed  touched,  and  tried 
to  comfort  him.     Eckbert  returned  to  town  with  a  lighter  heart. 

But  .  .  scarcely  had  tliey  entered  the  public  hall  when,  in  the  glitter 
of  tlie  many  lights,  Hugo's  looks  ceased  to  satisfy  him.  He  thought  he 
noticed  a  malicious  smile  ;  he  remarked  that  Hugo  did  not  speak  to  him 
as  usual.  ...  In  the  party  was  an  old  knight  who  had  always  shown  him- 
self the  enemy  of  Eckbert,  had  often  asked  about  his  riches  and  his  wife 
in  a  peculiar  style.  With  this  man  Hugo  was  conversing ;  they  were 
speaking  privately,  and  casting  looks  at  Hlckbert.  ...  As  he  continued 
gazing,  on  a  sudden  he  .  .  .  felt  convinced  that  it  was  none  but  Walther 
who  was  talking  to  the  knight.  ...  He  returned  to  his  castle.  Here  .  .  . 
sleep  never  visited  his  eyes.  ...  He  resolved  to  take  a  journey.  .  ,  . 

He  set  out,  Avitiiout  prescribing  to  himself  any  certain  route.  ...  At 
length  he  met  an  old  peasant  who  took  him  by  a  path  leading  past  a  wa- 
terfall. ..."  What  use  is  it?  "  said  Eckbert.  "  I  could  believe  that  this 
man,  too,  was  none  but  Walther."  He  looked  round  once  more,  and  it 
was  none  but  Walther.  Eckbert  spurred  his  horse  as  fast  as  it  could 
gallop  over  meiflis  and  forests,  till  it  sank  exhausted  to  the  earth.  Re- 
gardless of  this,  lie,  hastened  forward  on  foot. 

Ill  a  dreamy  mood  he  mounted  a  hill;  he  fiincied  he  caught  the  sound 
of  lively  barking  at  a  little  distance :  the  birch-trees  whispered  in  the  inter- 
vals, and  in  the  strangest  notes  he  heard  this  song: 

Alone  in  wood  so  gay 
Once  more  I  stay; 


270  Classic  German  Coarse  hi  English. 


~~  None  dare  me  slay, 

The  evil  far  away: 
Ah!  here  I  stay, 
Alone  in  wood  so  gay. 

The  sense,  the  consciousness  of  Eckbert  had  departed.  .  .  . 

A  crooked,  bent  old  woman  crawled  coughing  up  tlie  hill  witli  a  crutcli. 
"  Art  tliou  bringing  me  my  bird,  my  pearls,  my  dog?  "  cried  she  to  him. 
"  See  how  injustice  punishes  itself.  No  one  but  I  was  Walther,  wns 
Hugo." 

"  God  of  heaven !  "  said  Eckbert,  muttering  to  himself;  "in  what  fright- 
ful solitude  have  I  passed  my  life  1  " 

"  And  Bertha  was  thy  sister." 

Eckbert  sank  to  the  ground. 

"Why  did  she  leave  me  deceitfully?  All  would  have  been  fair  and 
well ;  her  time  of  trial  was  already  finished.  She  was  the  daugliter  of  a 
knight,  who  had  licr  nursed  in  a  sliepherd's  house,  the  daughter  of  thy 
father." 

"  Why  have  I  always  had  a  forecast  of  this  dreadful  thought?  "  cried 
Eckbert. 

"  Because  in  early  youth  thy  father  told  thee  he  could  not  keep  tiiis 
daughter  with  him  on  account  of  his  second  wi^e,  her  stepmother." 

Eckbert  lay  distracted  and  dying  on  the  ground.  Faint  and  bewildered 
he  heard  the  old  woman  speaking,  the  dog  barking,  and  the  bird  repealing 
its  song. 

And  thus,  seeming  still  unfinished,  the  story  ends. 
There  is  always  felt  by  English  or  American  readers  a  lack 
of  what  we  might  call  substance  in  Tieck's  stories— that  is, 
a  ground  of  reality,  of  probability.  Hawthoi-ne,  in  his  eeri- 
est fiction,  feels  laid  upon  him  the  obligation  to  suggest 
some  sort  of  rational  account  or  explanation  of  the  su])er- 
natural  element  which  he  introduces.  Tieck  is  perfectly  free 
to  leave  all  that  for  his  reader  to  arrange  as  best  he  can.  His 
reader,  if  he  be  a  German,  experiences  no  difiiculty  in  the 
case.  If  his  reader  be  an  Englishman  or  an  American,  dif- 
ficulty, indeed,  is  experienced,  but  the  difficulty  is  soon  dis- 
posed of  ;  the  Englishman  or  the  American  ceases  to  read 
Tieck,  and  turns  to  Charles  Dickens. 

Tieck  was  not  simply  a  romanticist  in  his  own  practice; 
he  waged  war  on  the  classicists.  From  one  of  his  produc- 
tions directed  against  classicism,  a  kind  of  drama,  we  take  a 


The  Romancers  and  the  Ronianticists.  271 

tew  generous  lines  on  Goethe,  to  show  as  a  good  specimen  of 
Tieck's  poetry  : 

We  have  made  ready  here  a  mead  of  flowers 
For  that  great  artist  of  the  latter  days, 
With  whose  uame  wakes  the  art  of  Germany, 
Who  sings  you  slill  full  many  a  noble  lay, 
And  bids  you  from  this  time  for  evermore 
Know  true  poetic  light — him  Shakespeare  hopes 
Erelong  to  clasp  ;    Cervantes  longs  for  him, 
And  Dante  muses  welcome  with  his  verse; 
And  then  these  holy  four  shall  ever  walk, 
Masters  of  latest  art,  about  my  fields  of  calm. 

We  began  our  treatment  of  this  writer  with  what  we  may 
call  Goethe's  tribute  to  Tieck.  With  Tieck's  tribute  to 
Goethe,  let  us  account  the  subject  closed. 

If,  among  the  German  Romanticists,  Tieck  was  by  quantity 
the  weightiest,  the  one  most  ethereal  in  quality  was  Novalis. 
The  bearer  of  this  name  is,  indeed,  scarcely  more  than  an 
unfixed  wandering  odor  in  the  flower-garden  of  German 
literature. 

Friedrieh  von  Hardenberg  (1772-1801) — for  "Novalis"  is 
a  pseudonym — exhaled  himself  away  in  an  earthly  life  of  only 
twenty-nine  fleet  and  beautiful  years,  leaving,  ns  we  have 
said,  behind  him  little  but  a  rare  and  exquisite  perfume. 
This,  however — unsubstantial  and  volatile  as  it  is — is  pre- 
cious, and  we  must  try  to  catch  and  imprison  at  least  a 
breath  of  it  here  to  sweeten  our  pages  withal. 

Tieck,  as  biographer  of  him,  paints  the  character  and  genius 
of  Novalis  with  colors  dipped  in  heaven.  Sober  criticism 
may  abate  much  from  the  glow  of  the  picture,  and  still 
leave  Novalis  a  truly  cliarming  tradition  of  loveliness  in  char- 
acter and  brilliancy  in  genius. 

The  works  of  Novalis  are  few  in  number,  and  in  form  frag- 
mentary. There  is  an  unfinished  romance  entitled  (from  its 
hero,  a  conjectured  author  of  the  Nlhelungen  Lied,  in  the 
existing  form  of  that  poem)  lle'nirh'h  \)on  Ofterdingen.  This 
we  pass  with  the  mere  mention  thus  made,  and  give,  in  spec- 


Ii72  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

imcn  of  Novalis,  a  few  "  Thoughts  "  from  his  Fragments, 
a  posthumous  publication.  In  our  first  selection,  the  reader 
will  find  Novalis  anticipating  that  recent  definition  of  "mat- 
ter" which  identifies  it  with  "  force  :  " 

All  manifestatiou  of  power  is  transilional;  stationary  power  is  matter. 

Let  our  readers  consider  whether  in  the  second  of  the  fol- 
lowing "Thoughts"  they  have  not  an  adumbration,  on 
Novalis'spart,  of  Hahnemann's  principle  in  therapeutics,  ISitn- 
ilia  similibus  curantur  (like  diseases  are  cured  by  like),  that 
foundation  of  homeopathy: 

As  only  spirit  is  truly  free,  so  only  spirit  can  be  forced. 

Might  it  not  be  possible  to  cure  diseases  by  diseases? 

A  character  is  a  completely  formed  will. 

Where  cliildren  are,  there  is  a  golden  age. 

Tlie  Bible  begins  gloriously  with  Paradise,  the  symbol  of  youth,  and 
ends  with  the  everhisting  kingdom,  with  the  Holy  City.  .  .  .  The  his- 
tory of  every  man  should  be  a  Bible. 

Every  sickness  is  a  musical   problem :  the  cure  is  the  musical  solution. 

A  space-filling  individual  is  a  body,  a  tirae-fiUing  individual  is  a  soul. 

Life  is  the  beginning  of  death;  life  is  for  death;  death  is  an  ending 
and  a  beginning  at  once. 

In  order  to  be  able  rightly  to  learn  a  truth,  one  needs  also  to  have  com- 
batted  it. 

Many  men  are  contemporary  rather  with  the  past  and  with  the  future 
than  with  the  present. 

Philosophy  is,  properly  speaking,  homesickness,  a  desire  to  be  every- 
where at  home. 

Water  is  a  wet  flame. 

Every  object  beloved  is  the  centre  of  a  paradise. 

The  foregoing  bits  of  wisdom,  or  of  paradox,  remarkable 
in  themselves,  but  very  remarkable  for  so  young  a  thinker, 
we  must  submit  without  criticism  to  our  readers.  Some  of 
them  Novalis  might  have  quite  outgrown  had  he  lived.  They 
were,  probably,  mere  jottings  of  thought  to  be  further  dwelt 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  273 

on  and  inquired  about.  They  bint  a  great  loss  to  literature, 
in  tbe  premature  death  of  the  author. 

To  Novalis  is  credited  that  memorable  word,  or  "expres- 
sion," as  may  be  most  convenient,  about  Spinoza:  "  Spinoza  is  a 
God-intoxicated  man."  This  is  to  be  understood  as  a  favora- 
ble inler}»retation  of  Spinoza's  pantheism.  Spinoza — so  Novalis 
would  have  it — far  from  finding  God  nowhere,  which  would 
have  made  him  an  atheist,  was  a  pantheist  because  he  found 
God  everywhere;  he  was  as  one  drunk  with  the  idea  of  God. 

Adding  two  stanzas  from  a  Christian  hymn  by  Novalis,  we 
bid  this  gracious  spirit  farewell : 

What  had  I  been  if  tliou  wert  not? 

"What  were  I  now  if  thou  wert  gone? 
Angiiisii  and  fear  wore  tlien  my  lot, 

In  tliis  wide  world  I  stood  alone ; 
"Whate'er  I  loved  were  safe  no  more, 

The  future  were  a  dark  abj'ss ; 
To  whom  could  I  my  sorrows  pour, 

If  thee  ni}' laden  heart  should  miss? 

But  when  thou  mak"st  tliy  presence  felt, 

And  when  the  soul  lias  grasped  thee  right, 
How  fast  the  dreary  sliadows  melt 

Eenealh  thy  warm  and  living  light! 
In  thee  I  find  a  nobler  birth, 

A  glory  o'er  the  world  I  see, 
And  paradise  returns  to  earth, 

And  blooms  again  for  us  in  thee. 

A  literary  movement  like  Romanticism,  become  perfectly 
self-conscious  and  meaning  to  be  iconoclastic,  innovative, 
belligerent,  needs  to  have  a  kind  of  court  of  judicature,  a 
source  of  authority,  a  resort  for  appeal.  This  the  German 
Romantic  movement  found  in  the  two  brothers  Schlegel,  men 
well  qualified  in  every  way  to  carry  the  requisite  weight  of 
influence,  both  with  the  members  of  their  school  itself,  and 
with  the  genei-al  ])ubli('.  These  brothers  possessed  in  em- 
inence that  curious,  that  indefinable,  i)ersonal  character  by 
virtue  of  which  its  possessor,  without  disturbing  sense  of 
12* 


274  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


imposture  practiced,  and  without  wavering  in  interior  con- 
viction of  right,  may  all  his  life  go  on  being  looked  up  to 
and  addressed  as  "  Sir  Oracle  ; "  in  other  words,  may  con- 
tentedly, comfortably,  and,  moreover,  perhaps  not  discredit- 
ably, sustain  the  life-long  part  of  one  wiser  tlian  any  human 
being  ever  was. 

But  the  pretensions  of  the  Schlegels,  overweening  as  they 
were,  had  grounds,  solid,  at  least,  if  not  sufficient,  to  rest 
upon.  They  were  both  men  of  great  ability,  and  of  acquire- 
ments still  greater.  They  were  prodigies  of  learning.  Their 
self-complacency — but  this  is  especially  true  of  the  elder — was 
an  exhaustless  resource  to  them,  supported  as  it  was  by  dig- 
nified personal  presence,  courtly  manneis,  and,  at  last,  high 
worldly  position.  The  elder  brother,  August  Wilhelm  von 
Schlegel  (1767-1845),  translated  Shakespeare,  producing  the 
version  which  was  destined  to  be  accepted  as  final,  and  which 
as  matter  of  fact  has  completely  domesticated  the  prince 
of  English  dramatists  among  the  Germans.  He  also  trans- 
lated Dante  and  Calderon.  He  wrote  original  poetry  of  his 
own.  Upon  that  poetical  form  known  as  the  sonnet,  he  be- 
stowed the  highest  distinction  within  his  power — by  writing 
in  it  a  lyric  of  eulogy  upon  himself!  His  own  claim  therein 
preferred,  is  not  quite  that  he  was  first  to  write  sonnets  in 
German — as  it  is  sometimes  said  that  he  was  ;  but  only  that 
he  was  "  conqueror,  exemplar,  master,"  in  this  kind.  The 
whole  absurd  travesty,  by  Schlegel  in  this  sonnet,  of  the 
calmly  Olympian  manner  in  self-appreciation,  may  be  rep- 
resented as  follows  in  prose  : 

In  the  manners  of  peoples,  in  many  a  foreign  clime,  and  in  their  langnase, 
long  since  by  experience  versed — that  which  antiquity,  that  whicli  modern 
times,  have  produced,  uniting  in  tlie  cliain  of  one  knowledge — whether 
standing  still,  moving,  walking,  lying  in  bed,  even  on  a  journey  as  if  under 
the  roof  of  home,  forever  poetizing,  of  all  things  that  are,  and  that  were — 
conqueror,  exemplar,  master  in  the  sonnet.  The  first  to  dare  on  German 
soil  wrestle  with  Shakespeare's  shade  and  with  Dante,  at  once  the  creator 
and  the  mold  of  law:  how  the  mouth  of  the  future  will  name  him  is 
unknown,  but  this  generation  recognized  him  by  the  name  of  August 
Wilhelm  Schlegel. 


Tlie  Romancers  and  the  Hoinanticists.  275 

The  self-complacent  author  of  the  foregoing  sonnet  proba- 
bly saw  no  reason  why  he  should  not  do  ample  justice  to  a 
great  name  in  letters  simply  because  that  great  name  hap- 
pened to  be  his  own. 

This  man  Avas  an  erudite  Orientalist,  when  Orientalism 
was  a  comparatively  new  department  of  learning  among 
Europeans.  Critic,  too,  as  well  as  philologist,  was  August 
AVilhelm  Schlegel;  after  Lessing,  perhaps  among  Germans 
none  wiser,  none  more  accomplished,  than  he.  Such,  at  least, 
was  for  some  time  at  first  the  estimation  in  which  he  \\'as 
held.  But  Schlegel's  credit  as  critic  has  since  sufiered  h)ss. 
A  single  brief  critical  expression  of  his,  relating  to  Shake- 
speare (foremost  with  Schlegel  of  poets,  and  mighty  model 
of  romanticists),  must  suttice  to  indicate  his  quality  as  critic. 
The  critic  here  appears  engaged  in  setting  forth  the  contrast 
between  the  distinctively  antique  and  the  distinctively  mod- 
ern in  literature  and  in  art.  That  contrast  he  makes  substan- 
tially the  same  as  the  contrast  between  the  classic  and  the 
romantic.     He  says  : 

The  Partlienon  is  not  more  diifcrent  from  Westminster  Abhe.y  or  from  tlie 
Church  of  St.  Stephen  at  Vienna  tlian  the  structure  of  a  tragedy  of  Soplio- 
cles  from  a  drama  of  Shakespeare.  The  comparison  between  tiiese  won- 
derful productions  of  jioetry  and  architecttu-e  might  I'C  carried  still  further. 
But  does  our  admiration  of  the  one  compel  us  to  depreciate  the  other? 
.  .  .  We  will  quarrel  with  no  one  for  his  predilection,  eitlier  for  the 
Grecian  or  the  Gothic;  the  world  is  wide,  and  affords  room  for  a  great 
diversity  of  objects. 

We  ought  perhaps  to  apprise  our  readers  that  they  would 
by  no  means  find  Schlegel  as  intelligible  throughout  as  he 
appears  in  the  brief  citations  from  him  here  presented. 

Friedrich  Karl  Wilhelm  von  Schlegel  (1772-1820),  the 
brother,  five  years  younger,  was,  beyond  even  August 
Wilhelm,  a  determineil  and  vigorous  fighting  romanticist. 
Friedrich  felt  a  vocation  to  begin  a  new  era  in  literature. 
Wicland  was,  for  liini,  no  jwet ;  Schiller,  none.  Goethe,  the 
two  Schlegels  ))raised.  He  indeed  was  a  god  to  them.  Tliis 
particular  idolatry  was  probably  in  part  a  deep  trick  with  the 


276  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

two  Schlegels  ;  a  trick,  the  conception  of  which  is  credited 
to  the  cunning  of  Friedrich.  The  })lot  was  to  separate 
Goethe  and  Schiller,  attach  Goethe,  nominally,  at  least,  to 
the  romantic  schoo',  and  so  secure  at  the  same  time  the 
triumph  of  romanticism  and  the  downfall  of  Schiller.  But 
Schiller  was  an  unsurpassed  diplomatist,  and  he  easily  suc- 
ceeded in  holding  Goethe  last  to  himself;  while,  as  for 
Goethe,  this  supremely  fortunate  man  had  nothing  to  do  but 
sit  still  and  tranquilly  let  the  wind  from  either  quarter  fill 
his  sails, 

A  certain  brilliant  haze  of  indistinctness  envelops  Fried- 
rich  Schlegel's  writing.  He  seems  to  promise  much  to  his 
reader ;  but  his  reader  vexes  himself  vainly  to  find  it,  and 
ends  by  bringing  little  away.  The  following  passage,  in 
whicli  the  writer  glorifies  his  beloved  middle  ages,  is  a  good 
and  a  sufficient  specimen  of  his  quality.  Our  critir.  has  just 
previously  been  setting  forth  the  claims  of  Ossian's  poetry — 
a  romantic  product  which  he  was  unwilling  to  surrender  as 
a  spurious  antique  forged  by  Macpherson;  and  he  mentions, 
in  connection,  the  Icelandic  Edda,  the  cycles  of  Norman 
song  [chansons  de  geste),  the  works  of  Firdusi,  the  Persian 
poet,  the  Spanish  epic  of  the  Cid,  and  the  German  N^lbelun- 
gen  Lied  •  he  then  says  (our  translations  from  the  Schlegels' 
prose,  Dr.  Hedge's  later  book  supplies  us)  : 

All  tliese  works  appeared  in  the  very  heart  of  that  long  period  of  time 
usually  desijjnated  tlie  night  of  the  Middle  Ages — a  term,  perhaps,  well 
fitted  to  express  the  isolated  existence  of  nations  and  individuals,  and 
the  interruption  of  that  universal  active  intercourse  which  prevailed  in 
the  later  period  of  the  Roman  dominion.  ...  In  this  view,  and  because 
the  liusiness  and  occupations  of  the  time  were  not  then  prosecuted  with 
the  skill  and  dexterity  of  modern  ages,  that  remarkable  period  in  the  civ- 
ilization of  mankind  may,  indeed,  be  termed  a  night.  But  how  starlit,  how 
radiant  was  that  night!  Now,  on  the  contrary,  we  are  wrapt  in  the 
gloom  and  confusion  of  a  lingering  twilight.  The  stars  which  shone 
upon  that  night  are  dim,  many  of  them  sunk  even  below  the  horizon,  and 
yet  no  day  has  risen  upon  us.  More  than  once,  indeed,  we  have  been 
summoned  to  hail  tlie  dawn  of  a  new  sun  which  was  to  bring  universal 
knowledge,  happiness,  pmsperitj'.  But  the  residts  have  by  no  means 
justified  the  rash  anticipation  ;  and  if  some  promise  seems  still  to  herald 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  277 

tlie  approach  of  a  new  day,  it  is  but  tiie  eliill  breath  of  the  morning  air 
wiiich  ever  precedes  the  breuliiug  Hght. 

The  Oriental  studies  of  the  ekier  brother  were  shared, 
were  perhaps  pushed  farther,  by  the  youngei".  Friedricli 
Sclilegel  may  be  considered  the  original  source  of  that  west- 
ern interest  in  Hindu  philosophy  and  Hindu  literature,  of 
which  we  have  seen  so  remarkable  a  growth  and  development 
in  our  own  day.  The  joint  services  of  the  two  brothers  to 
the  science  of  comparative  philology  were  great.  The  elder 
Schlegel,  who  survived  the  younger,  survived  also  his  own 
commanding  authority  in  literature.  His  relation  as  travel- 
ing tutor  in  the  German  language  and  literature  to  Madame 
de  Stael  could  not  but  have  considerable  influence  in  carry- 
ing over  the  romantic  literary  movement  from  Germany  to 
France. 

Of  the  simply  and  strictly  popular  tale — the  popular  tale, 
that  is,  unmodified  by  the  personal  taste  or  whim  or  f;mcy 
of  the  writer — the  best,  as  well  as  for  us  the  most  practica- 
ble, representative  specimen  is  undoubtedly  to  be  found  in 
the  collection  by  the  brothers  Grimm.  These  authors,  if 
they  are  to  be  ranked  as  romanticists  at  all,  are  the  clas- 
sicists among  them.  That  is,  they  seem  less  perhaps  than 
any  other  of  those  who  romanced  in  this  vein,  to  have  hu- 
mored themselves,  and  more,  to  have  obeyed  that  rule  of 
"  Not  too  much  "  which  is  at  once  the  awe  of  the  classicist, 
and  of  the  romanticist  the  scorn. 

The  brothers  Grimm  were  not  the  inventors  in  Germany 
of  the  species  of  literature  in  which  they  so  excelled.  The 
lead  was  given  by  one  Musa3us,  a  writer  of  a  time  some- 
what earlier  than  th:it  of  Herder.  Musa^us,  though  a  mer- 
itorious writer,  is  not  a  writer  of  the  first  class  in  im])or- 
tance.  Carlyle,  however,  in  his  Specimens  of  German  Ro- 
UKince,  translated  several  of  Musa^iis's  stories. 

The  brothers  Grimm  (Jacob  Ludwig  Karl,  1785-1863; 
Wilhehn  Karl,  1780-1859)  were  seriously  learned  scholars  as 
well  as  popular  writers.     Their  stories,  from  which  alone  we 


278  Classic  German  Course  in  Eiujlisli. 

here  draw,  may  bo  regarded  as  mere  leisure-liour  recreations 
on  their  part,  interposed  in  tlie  midst  of  the  most  arduous 
philological  labors.  Their  monumental  undertaking — achieve- 
ment it  can  hardly  be  called,  since  they  did  not  themselves 
bring  it  to  completion — is  a  dictionary,  encyclopaidic  for  com- 
prehensiveness, of  the  German  language. 

There  is  a  peculiar  household  cosiness  about  the  concep- 
tion and  the  style  of  the  stories  of  these  brothers,  well 
adajited  to  make  them,  as  they  are,  ])0pular  favorites.  They 
are  stories  pure  and  simple.  No  attempt  was  made  by  the 
authors  to  moralize  or  sentimentalize  their  narratives.  The 
personal  equation  in  them  is  nothing.  It  is  as  if  there  were 
no  author.  The  stories  seem  to  tell  themselves.  Of  course 
this  is  art,  and,  in  its  humble  kind,  it  is  art  of  high  degree. 
The  English  or  American  taste  does  not  so  naturally  as  does 
the  (Ternian  take  to  narratives  of  the  sort  about  to  be  exem- 
plitied.  Still  the  stories  of  the  brothers  Grimm  have  had  no 
small  currency  in  English  translation. 

We  shall  expect  our  readers  to  throw  oif  their  dignity  and 
heartily  laugh  at  the  whimsical  grotesqueness  of  the  follow- 
ing story,  which  must  stand  single,  and  retrenched  of  its 
beginning  at  that,  in  example  of  what  the  brothers  Grimm 
oiler  their  readers  in  this  line  of  production.  The  storj^  is 
entitled.  The  Musicians  of  Bremen. 

The  chief  personages  of  the  story  are  four — an  ass,  a  dog, 
a  cat,  and  a  cock — who  agree  to  go  to  Bremen,  and  there  set 
up  as  musicians  together.  On  their  way  to  the  city  they  are 
overtaken  by  night  in  a  forest.  Prospecting  for  accommo- 
dations, they  find  a  house  occupied  by  robbers.  Through  a 
lighted  window  was  to  be  seen  a  table  temptingly  set  out 
with  food.  The  "  musicians"  put  their  heads  together  to 
contrive  a  plan  for  dispossessing  the  robbers.  They  at 
length  hit  upon  an  idea.     Now  the  brothers  Grimm : 

The  ass  had  to  place  his  forefeet  upon  the  window  ledge,  tlie  honnd  ^ot 
on  his  back,  the  cat  climbed  up  upon  the  dow,  and  lastly,  tlie  cock  flew 
up  and  perched  upon  the  head  of  the  cat.  Wlien  tl  is  was  accomplished, 
at  a  given  signal  they  commenced  together  to  perform  their  music:  the 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  279 


ass  brayed,  the  dog  barked,  tlie  cat  tnewed,  and  the  cock  crew !  and  they 
made  such  a  tremendous  noise,  and  so  loud,  that  the  panes  of  tlie  window 
were  shivered !  Territied  at  these  unearthly  sounds,  the  robbers  got  up 
with  great  precipitation,  thuiking  nothing  less  than  that  some  spirits  had 
come,  and  fled  off  into  the  forest.  Tlie  four  companions  immediately  sat 
down  at  the  table  and  (piicUly  ate  up  all  that  was  left,  as  if  they  had  been 
fasting  for  six  weeks. 

As  soon  as  the  four  players  had  tiuished  they  extinguished  tlie  light, 
and  each  sought  for  himself  a  sleeping- place,  according  to  his  nature 
and  custom.  Tlie  ass  laid  himself  down  upon  the  straw,  the  hound  be- 
iiind  the  door,  thecal  upon  tlie  hearth  near  the  warm  ashes,  and  the  cock 
ficw  up  upon  a  beam  which  ran  across  the  room.  Weary  with  their  long 
walk,  they  soon  went  to  sleep. 

At  midnight  the  robbers  perceived,  from  tlieir  retreat,  that  no  light  was 
burning  in  their  house,  and  all  appeared  quiet;  so  the  captain  said,  "We 
need  not  to  have  been  frightened  into  fits;"  and  calling  one  of  the  band, 
he  sent  him  forward  to  reconnoitre.  The  messenger,  finding  all  still,  went 
into  tiie  kitchen  to  strike  a  light,  and,  taking  the  glistening  fiery  eyes  of 
the  cat  for  live  coals,  he  held  a  lucifer  match  to  them,  expecting  it  to  take 
fire.  But  the  cat,  not  understanding  the  joke,  flew  in  his  face,  spitting 
and  scratching,  which  dreadfully  frightened  him,  so  that  he  made  for 
the  back  door;  but  the  dog,  who  lay  there,  sprung  up  and  bit  his  leg  ; 
and  as  soon  as  he  limped  upon  the  straw,  whereupon  lay  the  ass,  it  gave 
him  a  powerful  kick  with  its  hind  foot.  This  was  not  all,  for  the  cock, 
awakening  at  the  noise,  stretched  himself,  and  cried  from  the  beam, 
"  Cock-a-doodle-doo,  cock-a-doodle-doo  !  " 

Then  the  robber  ran  back  as  well  as  he  could  to  his  captain,  and  said, 
"  Ah,  my  master,  there  dwells  a  horrible  witch  in  the  house,  who  spat  on 
me  and  scratclied  my  face  with  her  long  nails ;  and  then  before  the  door 
stands  a  man  with  a  knife,  who  chopped  at  my  leg ;  and  in  the  yard 
there  lies  a  black  monster,  who  beat  me  with  a  great  wooden  club;  and, 
besides  all,  upon  the  roof  sits  a  judge,  who  called  out,  '  Bring  the  knave 
up,  do,'  so  I  ran  away  as  fast  as  I  could." 

After  this  the  robbers  dared  not  again  go  near  their  house;  but  every 
thing  prospered  so  well  with  the  four  town-musicians  of  Bremen  that  they 
did  not  forsake  their  situation  I  And  there  they  are  to  this  day  for  any 
thing  f  know  1 

The  interest  of  the  Grimms'  stories  is  undoubtedly,  to  tlie 
average  sense  of  us  English-speakers,  often  very  pale.  Thor- 
oughly to  enjoy  your  true  German  household  or  popular  tale 
needs  the  spacious  leisure  of  (childhood,  with  childhood's 
vacant  mind   ready  indilferently  for  any  thing  that  offers  j 


280  Classic   Gertnaii   Course  In  Kngl'isli. 


and  then,  besides,  not  least,  that  happy  unwondering  credu- 
lity which  we  all  of  us  leave  irrecoverably  behind  us  when 
we  cease  to  be  children. 

Another  species  of  composition,  to  be  distinguished  from 
the  household  story  proper,  is  that  romantic  tale  in  which 
the  individual  imagination  or  reflection  of  the  writer  supplies 
an  important  element — additional  to  whatever  basis  may 
have  existed  ready  to  his  hand  from  some  current  popular 
myth.  Besides  Tieck  already  spoken  of,  we  need  mention 
no  more  than  three  authors  in  this  kind.  Of  these  the 
first  in  order  of  time  is  Hoffman  (Ei'nst  Theodor  Wilhelm 
Amadeus,  1776-1822). 

Of  the  life  of  this  man  we  need  not  stay  to  tell  much  ;  but 
the  circumstances  and  the  manner  of  his  death  must  be  told; 
they  were  extraordinary  —  perhaps,  taken  together,  quite 
without  a  parallel.  He  died  slowly  of  a  paralysis  which, 
beginning  at  his  feet,  crept  stealthily  up  by  inches  to  his 
vital  organs.  His  brain  and  his  will,  rebelling  to  the  last, 
defied  disease  and  death.  He  died,  indeed,  despite  his  de- 
fiance ;  but  who  ever  more  defiantly  died  ?  To  his  physician, 
standing  baflled  by  his  bedside,  Hoffman  said,  "  I  am  almost 
through  now,  am  I  not  ?  "  The  sufferer  had  noted,  but  had 
not  recognized,  a  mortal  symptom,  the  ceasing  of  pain.  "  Yes, 
almost  thi'ough,"  said  the  physician,  in  a  sense  his  patient 
did  not  understand.  "  I  will  go  on  to-night  with  my  writing," 
Hoffman  said  next  day.  He  had  been  engaged  upon  a  ro- 
mance; destined  never  to  be  finished.  The  dying  man  desired 
his  wife  to  read  to  him  what  he  had  dictated  last.  With 
difficulty  she  dissuaded  him.  At  his  request  he  was  then 
turned,  his  face  to  the  wall,  when  he  immediately  expired. 
What  weirdest  fiction,  forged  by  Hoffman's  fancy,  could 
equal  the  power  of  a  reality  like  that  ? 

From  Hoffman's  romance.  The  Golden  Pot,  divided  into 
"vigils"  (taking  tlie  place  of  chapters),  we  sever  and  con- 
dense, u-«ing  Carlyle's  translation,  a  "  vigil,"  almost  at  ran- 
dom.    The  wayward  fantastic  play  of  fancy  and  the  vivid 


The  KoiiKincers  and  the  Jioina/dicists.  281 

pictorial  power  characteristic  of  this  writer,  together  with  also 
that  flavor  of  humor  which  it  was  his  way  to  dash  liis  fictions 
withal,  will  be  found  here  sutticiently  exemplified.  If  you 
should  read  the  romance  throughout  you  would  simply  get 
more  of  the  same  sort  of  thing.  The  student  Anselmus,  of 
Dresden,  is  the  hero,  or,  if  the  reader  prefer,  the  victim,  of 
the  story.  This  young  man  has  had  the  bad  luck,  on  a  walk 
he  was  taking,  to  run  into  the  basket  of  a  cakeand-apple 
woman,  exciting  her  enmity — a  formidable  enmity,  for  she 
is  a  witch.  By  some  hocus-pocus,  easy  to  Ilofi^man,  the 
student  Anselmus  has  been  got  snugly  packed  away  alive  in 
a  glass  bottle.     Now  Hoffman  : 

Justly  may  I  doubt  whether  thou,  favi>rable  reader,  wert  ever  sealed 
up  in  a  glass  bottle.  .  .  .  Thou  art  drowned  in  dazzling  splendor  ;  all  objects 
about  thee  appear  illuminated  and  begirt  with  beaming;  rainbow  hues  ;  all 
quivers  and  wavers,  and  clangs  and  drones  in  the  sheen;  thou  art  swim- 
ming, motionless  and  powerless,  as  in  a  firmly  congealed  ether,  which  so 
presses  thee  together  that  the  spirit  in  vain  gives  orders  to  the  dead  and 
stiflened  body.  Weightier  and  weightier  the  mountain  burden  lies  on  thee ; 
more  and  more  does  every  breath  e.Khaust  the  little  handful  of  air  that 
still  played  up  and  down  in  the  narrow  space ;  thy  pulse  throbs  madly ; 
and,  cut  through  witli  horrid  anguish,  every  nerve  is  quivering  and  bleed- 
ing in  this  deadly  agon}'.  Have  pity,  favorable  reader,  on  the  student 
Anselmus  !  ...  He  could  move  no  limbs,  but  his  thoughts  struck  against 
the  glass,  stupefying  iiim  with  discordant  clang.  .  .  .  Then  he  exclaimed, 
in  his  despair:  "  0  Serpentina  !  Serpentina!  save  me  from  this  misery  of 
hell!  "  Ant>  it  was  as  if  faint  sighs  breathed  around  him,  which  spread 
like  green  transparent  elder-leaves  over  the  glass.  The  clanging  ceased, 
tlie  dazzling,  perplexing  glitter  was  gone,  and  he  breathed  more  freely. 

We  need  to  explain  that  "  Serpentina"  is  the  lovely,  mys- 
terious daughter  of  that  learned  and  potent  master  for  whom 
our  student  Anselmus  is  working  as  copyist. 

The  bottled  student  had,  too,  a  bodiless  vocal  message 
from  Serpentina,  which  kept  him  in  heart  through  mucli 
<listress.  But  soon  an  old  broken-nosed  cofi^eepot  near  un- 
derwent a  Iloffmanian  transformation,  and  became  the  hated 
witch  before  his  very  eyes.  An  altercation  ensued,  and  then  a 
hideous  struggle,  l)etween  the  witch  and  ''the  Archivarius," 
Serpentina's  father,  and   emjiloyer  to  the  stuch'tit  Aiischiius. 


282  Classic  Germmi  Course  in  English. 

The  witch  had  designs  against  Serpentina  which  the  father  ap- 
peared in  the  nick  of  time  to  foil.  The  "  golden  pot,"  filled 
with  a  magic  earth,  was  the  witch's  resource  of  evil  power. 
She  had  a  black  cat  to  help  her.  A  parrot,  on  the  other 
hand,  was  pitted  against  the  cat.  Now  let  Hoffman  describe 
the  struggle  and  the  event.  The  witch  first  speaks,  egging 
on  the  cat  against  Serpentina : 

"  To  her,  my  lad  I  "  creaked  llie  crone ;  tlien  the  black  cat  darted  through 
the  air,  and  soused  over  the  Archivarius's  liead  toward  the  door;  but  tlie 
gray  parrot  fluttered  out  against  him,  cauglit  him  witli  his  crooked  bill  by 
the  nape,  till  red,  fiery  blood  burst  down  over  his  neck,  and  Serpeiitina's 
voice  cried,  '■  Saved  !  saved  I  "  Tiien  the  crone,  foaming  with  rage  and  des- 
peration, darted  out  upon  the  Archivarius ;  she  threw  the  golden  pot  behind 
her,  and,  holding  up  the  long  talons  of  skinny  fists,  was  for  clutching  the 
Archivarius  by  the  throat ;  but  he  instantly  doffed  his  nightgown  and  hurled 
it  against  her.  Then,  hissing  and  spluttering  and  bursting,  shot  blue  flames 
from  the  parchment  leaves,  and  the  crone  rolled  round  in  howling  agony, 
and  strove  to  get  fresh  earth  from  the  pot,  fresh  parchment  leaves  from  tlie 
books,  that  she  might  stifle  tlie  blazing  flames;  and  whenever  any  earth 
or  leaves  came  down  on  her  the  flames  went  out.  But  now,  from  the 
interior  of  the  Archivarius,  issued  fiery,  crackling  beams,  and  darted  on 
the  crone. 

"Hey,  hey!  To  it  again!  Salamander!  Victory!"  clanged  the 
Archivarius's  voice  through  the  chamber ;  and  a  hundred  bolts  whirled 
forth  in  fiery  circles  round  the  shrieking  crone.  Whizzing  and  buzzing 
flew  cat  and  parrot  in  their  furious  battle. 

The  end  of  this  strange  strife  was  foregone.  The  wicked 
witch  was  vanquished,  and  both  Anselmus  and  Serjientina 
were  saved.  A  potent  voice  .  said  aloud  to  the  imprisoned 
student,  "  Be  free  and  happy."  The  sequel  is  thus  related 
by  Hoffman  : 

A  bright  flash  quivered  througli  the  spirit  of  Anselmus;  the  royal  tri- 
phony  of  the  crystal  bells  sotuided  stronger  and  louder  than  lie  had  ever 
heard  it;  his  nerves  and  fibres  thrilled;  but  swelling  higher  and  higher, 
the  melodious  tones  rang  through  the  room ;  the  glass  which  inclosed 
Anselmus  broke,  and  he  rushed  into  the  arms  of  his  dear  and  gentle 
Serpentina. 

Some  likeness  of  character  and  of  life  seems  to  emphasize 
the    literary    likeness   in    Hoffman    to   our   American    Poe. 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  283 


The  two  are  occasionally  spoken  of  together  as  kindied  in 
genius. 

CiiAMisso  is  an  instance  of  that  rare  phenomenon,  a  man 
achieving  in  a  language  to  which  he  was  not  horn  literary 
success  signal  enough  to  rank  him  among  the  classics  of  his 
ail(^]tted  tongue.  This  writer  was  a  pleasing  poet,  but  his 
jiopular  literary  fame  rests  chiefly  on  a  single  romance  of  his, 
The  Wonderful  History  of  Peter  Schlemihl.  Chamisso's 
work  in  botany,  it  should  be  said  in  passing,  fairly  entitles 
him  to  a  distinguished  place  among  men  of  science. 

Adalbert  von  Charaisso  (ITSl-lSSS)  w%-is  born  a  French- 
man in  noble  rank.  Till  nine  years  of  age  he  lived  in 
France,  and,  of  course,  spoke  Fi-ench.  He  was  twenty  years 
old  before  he  could  be  said  to  have  taken  full  possession  of 
his  adopted  vernacular.  His  masterpiece,  Peter  Schlemihl, 
has  a  world-wide  celebrity.  It  is  an  original  in  literature. 
Hoffman  repeated  the  idea  of  it  in  a  characteristically  dif- 
ferent treatment  of  his  own,  entitled,  The  Lost  Looking-glass 
Image.  The  idea  of  Peter  Schlemihl  is  that  of  a  man  who, 
for  a  valuable  consideration — nothing  less,  in  short,  than  the 
bottomless  purse  of  F'ortunatus — has  parted  with  the  seem- 
ingly needless  appendage  of  his  own  shadow.  The  bargain 
])roves  a  sinister  one,  and  the  business  of  the  story  is  to  tell 
how.  Of  course,  it  was  none  but  the  devil  himself  that 
could  be  the  customer  to  purchase,  at  such  a  price,  an  article 
like  a  human  shadow.  There  is  little  introduction  of  super- 
naturalism  in  the  story  beyond  what  is  necessarily  involved 
in  this  its  very  idea.  The  interest,  indeed,  and  the  power  of 
the  production  lie  precisely  in  the  verisimilar,  i-ealistic  way 
in  which  the  natural  consequences  of  a  supernatural  transac- 
tion are  worked  out  and  presented. 

The  story  divides  itself  into  two  parts — not  named  and 
a]tparently  not  recognized  by  the  author  himself  as  con- 
stituting two  i)arts,  but  in  fact  quite  distinctly  such.  In  the 
liist  part  the  writer  really  exhausted  the  development  of  his 
original   idea.       In    the  second   part,  Chamisso  accordingly 


284  Classic  German  Course  in  Englisli. 

takes  lip  a  new  and  different  piece  of  supeniaturalism.  He 
has  his  liero  buy  himself  a  pair  of  boots — which,  for  no  cause 
wliatever  that  appears,  turn  out  to  be  seven-leaguers.  With 
these,  shadowless  still,  and  therefore  still  cut  off  from  his 
fellow-men,  but  without  the  purse,  renounced,  of  Fortunatus, 
the  soliiaryman  becomes  a  wanderer  from  continent  to  conti- 
nent, devoted  to  preparing  a  great  and  final  work  on  geography 
in  the  largest  sense  of  that  term.  There  might  almost  seem 
to  be  here  a  tacit  anonymous  allusion  to  Chamisso's  con- 
temporary, Humboldt,  that  famous  geographical  philosopher 
who  made  the  circuit  of  the  glob(>,  traveling  as  with  seven- 
league  boots,  to  write  his  stupendous  work.  Cosmos,  so-called. 
But  it  is  rather  Chamisso  himself  that  supplied  to  Chamisso  the 
idea  of  such  a  world-wandering  man.  He  circumnavigated 
the  earth  on  his  botanical  quests. 

Peter  Schlcmihl  is  introduced — or  rather  is  made  to  intro- 
duce himself,  for  the  story  is  autobiographical  in  form — as  a 
poor  fellow  out  of  money,  calling,  a  stranger,  on  a  rich  man 
to  sue  for  his  patronage.  This  rich  man  he  finds  outwalking 
with  a  compan)^  among  whom  is  one  person  that  on  call 
produces  from  his  pocket  successively  at  intervals  a  pocket- 
book  with  plaster  in  it  for  a  wound  from  a  thorn,  at  the  mo- 
ment received  by  a  lady  on  her  hand,  a  telescope,  a  large 
Turkey  carpet,  a  tent  (canvas,  poles,  cordage,  iron-work, 
and  all),  and,  finally,  three  horses — "I  tell  thee  three  beau- 
tiful great  black  horses,  with  saddle  and  caparison,"  Peter 
Schleinihl  says,  with  firmness,  to  overawe  incredulity,  writing 
to  his  friend  Chamisso.  This  necromantic  personage,  making 
an  approach  to  Peter,  obsequiously  begs  to  buy  that  gentle- 
man's shadow.  Now  let  Chamisso  make  Peter  Schlemilil  take 
up  the  word.     Peter  first  speaks,  replying  to  the  devil  : 

"But,  sir,  pardon  }'oiir  mopt  lumible  servant;  I  do  not  understnnd  your 
meanino-.     How,  indeed,  conld  my  shadow — "   He  interrupted  me —  .  .  . 

"  I  wive  you  the  choice  of  all  the  treasures  whicJi  I  carr3'  in  my 
pocket —  .  .  .  Fortunatus's  wishing-cap,  newly  and  stoutly  repaired,  and 
a  lucky-bag,  such  as  he  had — " 

"The   luck-purse  of  Fortunatus!  "  T  exclaimed,  interrupting  him;  and 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  285 

great  as  my  anxiety  was,  with  that  one  word  he  had  taken  my  whole 
mind  captive.  A  dizziness  seized  me,  and  double  ducats  seemed  to  glitter 
before  my  eyes. 

"  Honored  sir,  will  you  do  me  the  favor  to  view,  and  to  make  trial  of 
this  purse?"'  .  .  .  I  plunged  my  hand  into  it,  and  drew  out  ten  gold 
pieces,  and  again  ten,  and  again  ten,  and  again  ten.  .  .  .  "  Agreed  1 
.  .  .  For  the  purse  you  have  my  shadow!  " 

He  .  .  .  kneeled  instantly  down  before  me,  and  I  belield  liim,  with  an 
admirable  dexterity,  gently  loosen  my  shadow  from  top  to  toe  from  the 
grass,  lift  it  up,  roll  it  together,  fold  it,  and,  finally,  pocket  it. 

The  consequences  follow  promptly.     Chamisso: 

...  I  hastened  to  quit  the  place  where  I  had  nothing  more  to  expect. 
In  the  first  place  I  tilled  my  pockets  with  gold ;  then  I  secured  the 
strings  of  the  purse  fast  round  my  neck,  and  concealed  the  purse  itself 
in  my  bosom.  I  passed  Unobserved  out  of  the  park,  reached  the  highway, 
and  took  ihe  road  lo  the  city.  As,  sunk  in  thought,  I  approached  the  gate 
I  heard  a  cry  belaud  me: 

"  Young  gentleman !  eh !  young  gentleman !  hear  you !  " 

I  looked  round :  an  old  woman  called  after  me : 

"  Do  take  care,  sir;  you  have  lost  your  shadow!" 

"Thank  you,  good  mother!"  I  threw  her  a  gold  piece  for  her  well- 
meant  intelligence,  and  stopped  under  the  trees. 

At  the  city  gale  I  was  compelled  to  hear  again  from  the  sentinel, 
"Where  has  the  gentleman  left  his  shadow?"  And  immediately  again 
from  some  woman,  "Jesus  Maria;  the  poor  fellow  has  no  shadow!"  That 
began  to  irritate  me,  and  I  became  especially  careful  not  to  walk  in  the 
sun.  This  coidd  not,  however,  be  accomplished  everywhere — for  instance, 
over  the  broad  street  which  I  next  must  approach,  actually,  as  mischief 
would  have  it,  at  the  very  moment  that  the  boys  came  ou:  of  school.  A 
cursed,  hunch-backed  rogue — I  see  him  yet — spied  out  instantly  that  I  had 
no  shadow.  He  proclaimed  the  fact  with  a  loud  outcry  to  the  whole 
assembled  literary  street  j'outh  of  the  suburb,  who  began  forthwith  to 
criticise  me,  and  to  pelt  me  with  mud.  "  Decent  people  are  accustomed  to 
take  their  shadow  with  them,  when  they  go  into  the  sunshine."  To 
defend  myself  from  them  I  threw  whole  handfuls  of  gold  amongst  them  and 
sprang  into  a  hackney-coach,  which  some  compassionate  soul  procured 
for  me. 

As  soon  as  I  found  myself  alone  in  the  rolling  carriage  I  began  to 
weep  bitterl}'.  The  presentiment  must  already  have  arisen  in  me,  that  far 
as  gold  on  earth  transcends  in  estimation  merit  and  virtue,  so  much  higher 
t]i;in  gold  itself  is  the  shadow  valueii ;  and  as  I  had  earlier  sacrificd  wealth 
to  conscience,  I  had  now  thrown  away  the  shadow  for  more  gold.     What 


286  Classic  German   Course  in  English. 

iu  the  world  could  and  would  become  of  me?  I  ordered  the  coachman 
to  drive  to  the  most  fashionable  hotel.  The  house  faced  the  "north,  and  I 
had  not  the  sun  to  fear.  T  dismissed  the  driver  with  gold;  caused  the 
best  front  rooms  to  be  assigned  me,  and  shut  myself  up  in  them  as  quickly 
as  I  could  I 

What  thiukest  thou,  I  now  began  ?  0,  my  dear  Chamisso,  to  confess 
it  even  to  thee  makes  me  blush.  I  drew  the  unlucky  purse  from  my 
bosom,  and  with  a  kind  of  desperation  which,  like  a  rushing  conflagra- 
tion, grew  in  me  with  self-increasing  growtlt,  I  extracted  gold,  and  gold, 
and  gold,  and  ever  more  gold,  and  strewed  it  on  the  floor,  and  strode 
amongst  it,  and  made  it  ring  again,  and,  feeding  my  poor  heart  on  the 
splendor  and  the  sound,  flung  continually  more  metal  to  metal,  till  in  my 
weariness  I  sank  down  on  the  rich  heap,  and,  rioting  thereon,  rolled  and 
reveled  amongst  it.  So  passed  the  day,  the  evening.  I  opened  not  my 
door;  night  and  day  found  me  lying  on  my  gold,  and  then  sleep  over- 
came me. 

Chamisso's  idea,  though  novel,  certainly,  and  interesting, 
was  not  a  very  fruitful  one.  There  was  really  little  or  noth- 
ing for  the  author  to  do  with  it  but  go  on  telling  with  varia- 
tions the  same  thing  over  and  over,  namely,  liow  a  man 
observed  not  to  cast  a  natural  shadow  became  at  once  an 
object  of  the  most  embarrassing  suspicion  among  his  fellows, 
wherever  he  might  go.  Skillful,  howevei',  the  conduct  of  the 
story  is  throughout,  and  the  reader's  interest  is  kept  alive. 
Openly  humorous  conception  appears  in  one  passage,  that  in 
which  the  distracted  shadowless  man,  attended  by  an  attached 
faithful  servant,  approaches  a  retired  residence  previously 
secured  by  the  latter  for  his  master's  retreat.  The  good 
people  of  the  vicinage  thought  they  recognized  in  Peter  a 
most  illustrious  person — no  other,  in  short,  than  the  King  of 
Prussia  in  disguise.  The  shadowless  man  has  for  once  in 
the  world  a  royal  welcome. 

With  the  experiences  of  Peter  after  buj'ing  his  seven-league 
boots,  we  need  not  concern  ourselves.  The  really  distinct- 
ive idea  in  the  story  has  already  been,  perhaps,  sufficiently 
exemplfied. 

There  is  no  little  resemblance  in  kind  between  Peter  Sc/ile- 
mihl,  and  such  realistic,  impossible  fiction  as  that  of  which 
Mr.  Edward  Everett  Hale  has  shown  himself  a  consummate 


Tlie  Romancers  and  the  Homanticists.  287 

master,  in,  for  instance,  liis  tales  of  J///  Double  and  IIoio 
He  Undid  Me,  and  Philip  Nolan^  or  the  Man  loithout  a 
Country. 

A  TITLE  as  familiar  perhaps  to  English- speakers  as  that  of 
any  other  book  in  German  literature — excepting  only  a  few 
titles  associated  with  Goethe  or  with  Schiller  as  author,  is 
Undine.  This  is  the  name  of  the  lovely  heroine  in  the 
romantic  masterpiece  of  the  romanticist  Fouque. 

Friedrich  Ileinrich  Karl,  Baron  de  la  Motte  Fouque  (1777- 
1843)  was,  as  his  name  indicates,  of  French  extraction.  He 
was  not,  however,  himself,  like  Chamisso,  an  immigrant  from 
France.  He  descended  from  a  Huguenot  family,  one  of 
those  families  whom  Louis  XIV.,  blind  with  bigotry,  impov- 
erished his  realm  by  driving  into  exile  through  his  revocation 
of  the  Edict  of  Nantes.  Fouque  became  a  pi-oductive  and  a 
successful  author,  one  to  be  reckoned  strictly  in  the  school  of 
the  Romanticists.  His  work  has  shared  the  fortune  of  his 
school,  and  become  for  the  most  part  a  fashion  of  the  i)ast. 
He  rose  to  popularity  under  the  patronage  of  the  Schlegels, 
and  he  fell  with  the  fall  of  his  patrons.  His  Undine,  how- 
ever, still  stands,  floats,  rather,  high  in  heaven — for  its  quality 
is  ethereal — and  securely  bears  up  its  author's  name.  The 
fairest  "  little  classic  "  in  all  German  literature,  to  us  English 
and  American,  is  the  Undine  of  Fouque. 

The  idea  of  Undine  is  that  of  a  water-spirit  in  human  form 
issuing  from  her  proper  haunt  in  the  water-world,  to  move 
among  men  and  to  become  at  length,  through  union  to  the 
human  race  in  marriage,  endowed  Avith  a  soul.  The  romance 
is  a  [)ure  and  charming  creation  of  fancy — but  it  is  emphat- 
ically of  fancy  all  compact.  Not  every  one  will  thoroughly 
enjoy  it,  it  is  so  destitute  of  ground  in  truth  or  likelihood. 
Vou  have,  in  reading  it,  to  give  yourself  up  to  the  sway  of 
sheer  caprice.  But  a  sweet  and  gracious  caprice  is  Undine, 
and,  to  spirits  ready  for  the  lesson,  not  without  hint  of  moral 
purifying  sense  in  its  fable.  The  so(d  received  by  Undine  at 
marriage  with  one  of   the  sons   of  men   is  a  sinless  soul,  no 


288  Classic  Gei'man  Course  in  English. 

taint  in  it  derived  from  Adam's  lapse,  and  apparently  no 
taint  possible  from  lapses  of  its  own.  This  impeccable 
quality  is  not  insisted  uj^on  by  the  author;  nay,  it  is  not  even 
expressly  attributed  by  him.  But  in  eifect  it  is,  and  the 
sequel  is  exquisite  in  a  unique  and  painless  pathos  reached  at 
last. 

A  fisherman  and  his  wife,  living  lonely  by  the  shore,  with 
a  haunted  forest  lying  between  them  and  the  great  world, 
lose  an  infant  daughter  through  death  (or  supposed  death) 
by  drowning — who  is  afterward  replaced  by  a  foundling 
child  mysteriously  brought  to  their  door.  This  is  Undine,  a 
bright,  gay,  sparkling  creature,  innocently  full  of  pranks 
played  es^jecially  in  connection  with  water.  A  knight,  hav- 
ing wandered  Avith  much  adventure  through  the  forest  to  the 
cot  of  the  fisherman,  becomes  ennraored  of  Undine  and  mar- 
ries her.  The  morning  after,  she  rises  a  different  being. 
The  frolic,  incalculable  maid  has  become  a  sweetly  serious 
woman,  dutiful  wife  and  daughter.  But  let  Fouque  him- 
self describe  her,  first  as  she  had.  been,  and  then  as  she 
became.  The  priest  has  joined  the  pair  in  wedlock,  and 
the  bride,  as  yet  not  transformed,  behaves  before  him  ac- 
cording to  her  first  thoughtless  nature.  The  holy  man 
reproves  her: 

"  My  dear  youncj  Iwdy,  ...  it  is  your  duty  to  keep  watch  over  your 
soul."  .  .  . 

"Soul!"  cried  Uudine.  lau,s]iing;  .  .  .  "but  if  one  has  no  soul  at  all, 
pray  how  is  one  to  keep  watcli  over  it?     And  that  is  my  case." 

Tlie  priest  was  deeply  hurt,  and  turned  away  his  face  in  mingled  sor- 
row and  anger.  ... 

At  length  .  .  .  she  looked  at  the  priest  earnestly  and  said,  "Tliere 
must  be  mucli  to  love  in  a  soul,  but  mucii  that  is  awful  too.  For  God's 
sake,  holy  father,  tell  me,  were  it  not  better  to  be  still  without  one  ?  .  .  . 
Heavy  must  be  the  burden  of  a  soul.  .  .  .  Heavy  indeed !  for  the  mere 
approach  of  mine  overshadows  me  with  anxious  melancholy.  And,  ah  1 
how  light-hearted,  how  Joyous  I  used  to  be !  " 

The  change  apparent  next  morning  is  thus  described. 
The  fisherman  and  his  wife,  with  the  priest  and  the  husband, 


The  Romancers  and  the  Rouuuitlcists.  289 

are  waiting  for  Undine  to  enter.     At  last  she  appears.     Now 
Fonqne : 

Tliey  could  not  help  rising  to  meet  her,  and  stood  still,  astonished;  tlie 
young  creature  was  the  same,  yet  so  different.  The  priest  was  the  first 
to  address  her,  with  an  air  of  paternal  kindness,  and,  when  he  raised  his 
hands  in  benediction,  the  fair  woman  sank  on  her  knees,  trembling  with 
pious  awa  In  a  few  meek  and  humble  words  she  begged  him  to  forgive 
the  folly  of  the  day  before,  and  besought  him,  with  great  emotion,  to 
pray  for  the  salvation  of  her  soul.  Then  rising,  she  kissed  her  foster 
parents,  and,  tlianking  them  for  all  their  kindness,  she  said  :  "  0,  now  I 
feel  from  the  bottom  of  my  heart  how  much  you  have  done  for  mo ;  liow 
deeply  grateful  I  ought  to  be,  dear,  dear  people !  "  She  seemed  as  if  she 
could  not  caress  them  enough  ;  but  soon,  observing  the  dame  glance  to- 
ward the  breakfast,  she  went  toward  the  hearth,  busied  herself  arranging 
and  preparing  the  meal,  and  would  not  suffer  the  good  woman  to  take 
tlie  least  trouble  herself. 

So  she  went  on  all  day  ;  at  once  a  young  matron  and  a  bashful,  ten- 
der, delicate  bride.  The  three  who  knew  her  best  were  every  moment 
expecting  this  mood  to  cliange  and  give  place  to  one  of  her  crazy  fits, 
but  they  watciied  her  in  vain.  There  was  still  the  same  angelic  mildness 
and  sweetness. 

Undine  explains  to  her  husband  about  the  wonder  of  her- 
self and  of  her  kind,  as  follows: 

"  You  must  know,  my  own  love,  th:it  in  each  element  exists  a  race  of 
beings  whose  form  scarcely  differs  from  yours,  but  who  very  seldom  ap- 
pear to  mortal  sight.  In  the  flames  the  wondrous  salamanders  glitter 
and  disport  themselves :  in  the  depths  of  earth  dwell  the  dry,  spiteful 
race  of  gnomes;  the  forests  are  peopled  by  wood-nymplis,  who  are  also 
spirits  of  air  ;  and  the  seas,  the  rivers,  and  brooks  contain  the  numberless 
tribes  of  water-sprites.  Their  echoing  halls  of  crystal,  where  the  light 
of  heaven  pours  in,  with  its  sun  and  stars,  are  glorious  to  dwell  in ;  the 
gardens  contain  beautiful  coral  plants,  with  blue  and  red  fruits ;  they 
wander  over  bright  sea-sands  and  gay-colored  shells,  among  the  hidden 
treasures  of  the  old  world,  too  precious  to  be  bestowed  on  these  latter 
days,  and  long  since  covered  by  the  silver  mantle  of  the  deep:  many  a 
noble  monument  still  gleams  there  below,  bedewed  b}-^  tlie  tears  of  Ocean, 
who  gailands  it  with  flowery  sea-weeds  and  wreaths  of  shells.  Those 
that  dwell  there  below  arc  noble  and  lovely  to  behold,  far  more  so  than 
mankind.  Many  a  tishernian  has  had  a  passing  glimpse  of  some  fair 
water-nynipji  rising  out  of  the  sea  with  her  song;  he  wouli  then  spread 
the  report  of  her  apparition,  and  these  wonderful  beings  came  to  be 
called  Undines  ;  and  you  now  see  befurc  you,  my  love,  .lu  Uiidiue." 
13 


290  Classic  Germcni  Course  in  English. 

And  further,  Undine  : 

"  We  have  no  souls  ;  the  elemenis  move  us,  obey  us  while  we  live,  close 
over  us  when  we  die ;  and  we  light  spirits  live  as  free  I'rom  care  as  the 
nightingale,  the  gold-fish,  and  all  such  bright  children  of  nature.  But  no 
creatures  rest  content  in  their  appointed  place.  My  father,  who  is  a 
mighty  prince  in  the  Mediterranean  Sea,  determined  that  his  only  child 
should  be  endowed  with  a  soul,  eveu  at  the  cost  of  much  suffering,  which 
is  ever  the  lot  of  souls.  But  a  soul  can  be  infused  into  one  of  our  race 
only  by  being  united  in  the  closest  bands  of  love  to  one  of  yours.  And 
now  I  have  obtained  a  soul ;  to  thee  I  owe  it,  0  best  beloved !  and  for 
that  gift  I  shall  ever  bless  thee,  unless  thou  dost  devote  my  whole  fu- 
turity to  misery." 

After  such  a  frank  disclosure  of  the  truth  concerning  her- 
self and  her  relations  to  a  world  not  human,  she  offers  to 
leave  her  husband,  if  he  will  have  her,  though  her  own  cost 
in  doing  so  will  be  unimaginably  great.  Say  but  the  word, 
she  exclaims,  and — now  Undine  once  more: 

"I  will  plunge  into  tiiis  brook;  it  is  my  uncle,  who  leads  a  wonderful, 
sequestered  life  in  this  forest,  away  from  all  his  friends.  But  he  is  pow- 
erful, and  allied  to  many  great  rivers ;  and  as  he  (wrought  me  here  to  the 
fisherman  a  gay  and  laughing  child,  so  he  is  ready  to  take  me  back  to 
my  parents,  a  loving,  suffering,  forsaken  woman." 

This  same  uncle  of  Undine's  is  a  character,  and  he  plays  a 
great  part  in  the  sequel  of  the  story.  He  takes  upon  himself 
to  linger  near  Undine  in  her  wedded  estate,  with  a  view  to 
seeing  that  she  suffers  no  wrong.  Wrong,  however,  she 
suffers,  for  her  husband's  heart  is  won  away  from  his  beau- 
tiful wife  by  a  woman  who  had  loved  him  before  he  married 
Undine.  Bertalda  is  the  woman's  name.  Bi-n'talda  is  in  fact 
— this  the  uncle  reveals  to  Undine — the  fisherman's  own 
daughter,  rescued  by  the  water-spirits  from  drowning,  and 
fallen  into  the  hands  of  a  noble  family  who  adopt  her.  Un- 
dine brings  about  the  meeting  of  Bertalda  with  her  true 
parents;  but,  to  her  deep  chagrin,  Bertalda  scorns  and  spurns 
them.  The  result  is  that,  cast  off  by  her  adoptive  parents, 
and  not  desired  by  her  time,  Bertalda  is  welcomed  by  Undine 
to  a  home  with  herself.     The  uncle  makes  ominous  appear- 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  291 

ances  from  time  to  time  in  defense  of  his  niece,  until  she  her- 
self, in  self-renouncing  love,  shuts  him  away  from  access  to 
the  castle  by  having  a  vast  stone  laid  over  the  fountain  in 
the  court  by  which  he  used  to  come.  Nothing,  however,  is 
strong  enough  to  overcome  fate.  Fate  ruled  that  Undine 
and  her  knight  untrue  should  be  parted.  She  has  conjured 
him  never  to  indulge  his  anger  at  his  wife — anger  was  indeed 
a  i)assion  which  even  in  that  display,  so  she  effaced  herself  to 
acknowledge,  ennobled  his  beauty — but  never  to  indulge  it 
Avhen  they  were  on  the  water;  for  there  they  were  under  the 
power  of  her  kindred.  This  very  thing  he  of  course  at  last 
does.  It  occurs  when  the  three,  husband,  wife,  and  Bertalda, 
are  sailing  together  down  the  Danube  to  visit  Vienna.  What 
impended  for  Undine  fell.  She  was  drawn  back  to  her  home 
among  her  kindred. 

Iler  husband  and  Bertalda  at  length,  against  solemn  fore- 
warnings,  marry.  Upon  Undine  then  devolves  a  dreadful 
duty  which  she  cannot  evade.  She  must,  returning  to  the  cas- 
tle, execute  doom  upon  her  faithless  lord.  Her  way  to  do 
this  was  made  easy  by  Bertalda,  unawares.  This  lady,  in 
the  pride  of  her  joy  at  power  acquired  in  the  castle,  had  had 
that  stone  removed  which,  for  self-sacriticing  love  of  her,  the 
gentle  Undine  had  placed  over  the  fountain  in  the  court- 
yard. The  workmen  were  astonished  at  the  ease  with  which 
the  great  weight  suffered  itself  to  be  lifted.  Now  our  last 
from  "  Undine :" 

More  and  more  did  the  stone  heave,  till,  without  any  impulse  from  the 
men,  it  rolled  heavily  along  the  pavement  with  a  hollow  sound.  But.  from 
the  mouth  of  the  spring  arose,  slowlj'  and  solemnly,  what  looked  like  a 
column  of  water.  At  first  they  thought  so,  but  presently  saw  thai  it  was 
no  waterspout,  but  the  figiire  of  a  pale  woman,  veiled  in  white.  She  was 
weeping  abundantly,  wringing  her  hands  and  clasping  them  over  her  head, 
while  she  proceeded  with  slow  and  measured  step  toward  the  castle.  The 
crowd  of  servants  fell  back  from  tiie  spot;  while,  jiale  and  aghast,  the  bride 
and  her  women  looked  on  from  the  window. 

T!ie  knight  had  now  dismissed  his  train;  half  undressed,  and  in  a  dc- 
jecled  mood,  he  was  standing  near  a  large  mirror,  by  the  light  of  a  dim 


292  Classic  German  Course  in  En<jlislif. 

taper.     He  heard  tlie  door  tapped  by  a  soft,  soft  touch.    It  was  thus  Undine 

had  been  wont  to  knock  when  she  meant  to  steal  upon  him  plaj'fully. 
"It  is  all  fanc}'!"  thought  he.     "The  bridal  bed  awaits  me." 
"  Yes,  but  it  is  a  cold  one,"  said  a  weeping  voice  from  without ;  and  the 

mirror  then  showed  him  the  door  opening  slowly,  and  the  white  form 

coming  in,  and  closing  the  door  genlly  beliind  her. 

Trembling  at  once  with  love  and  awe,  the  knight  approaclied  her;  she 
received  him  with  a  tender  embrace;  but  instead  of  relaxing  her  hold, 
she  pressed  him  more  closely  to  her  heart,  and  wept  as  if  her  soul  would 
pour  itself  out.  Drowned  in  lier  tears  and  his  own,  Huldbnind  felt  his 
heart  sink  within  liim,  and  at  last  he  fell  lifeless  from  the  fond  arms  of 
Undine  upon  his  pillow. 

"I  have  wspt  him  to  deatli!"  said  she  to  the  pages,  wiiom  she  passed 
in  the  antechamber;  and  she  glided  slowly  through  the  crowd,  and  went 
back  to  the  fountain. 

There  is,  in  the  lightness,  the  brightness,  the  delicacy, 
the  grace,  the  Attic  measure,  of  this  charming  romance  of 
Fouque's,  something  that  suggests  the  French  strain  in 
the  authors  blood.  But  it  has  in  it  the  German  quality 
too  of  mystic  marvel.  Of  course  the  starting-point  of  a 
conception  seeming,  at  first  blush,  to  be  so  utterly  new  and 
strange,  so  out  of  imaginative  reach,  as  that  of  the  JJii' 
dine,  might  have  been  supplied  to  Fouquo  by  the  my- 
thology of  the  ancient  pagan  world  which  peopled  spring 
and  stream  and  sea  with  various  "gay  creatures  of  the 
element."  Fouque  had  only  to  give  to  this  fancy  of  the  elder 
time  a  turn,  and,  as  it  were,  a  meaning,  of  his  own — ■"  the  fair 
humanities  of  old  religion"  receiving  thus  through  him  an 
unexpected  interpretation  to  the  modern  imaginative  sense. 
In  truth,  however,  there  was  a  whole  system  of  imaginary 
animated  nature  ready  made  to  Fouque's  hand  in  the  fairy 
lore  of  his  adopted  fatherland. 

Coleridge  testified  that  the  Undine  of  Fouque  furnished 
to  him  what  was  rare,  almost  unique,  in  his  experience  of 
literature — an  absolutely  new  and  original  idea. 

The  Romanticists  of  Germany  had,  of  course,  their  poets. 
Among  these  there  is  one  entitled,  perhaps,  to  the  dignity  of 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  293 

being  called  by  eminence  tlieir  poet.  'Pliis  is  I'hland, 
Nearly  all  the  romanticist  brethren  poetized  ;  but  Uhland, 
by  merit  or  by  fortune,  or,  it  may  be,  rather  by  that  ha{»py 
choice  of  his  genius  which  made  him,  in  a  time  of  national 
exigency,  a  voice  in  verse  of  the  national  spirit,  became  the 
most  popular  and  most  powerful  German  poet,  not  only  of 
his  own  school,  but  of  his  generation.  Of  the  romantic 
school  in  literature  we  thus  assume  that  Uhland  must  be 
reckoned.  It  is  true,  however,  that  a  saving  influence  from 
without,  exerted  probably  by  Goethe — to  which  a  felicity  of 
his  own  temperament  responded — kept  Uhland  from  going 
extravagant  lengths  in  the  romantic  direction. 

Johann  Ludwig  Uhland  (1*787-1802),  born  at  Tubingen, 
lived  a  life  in  which  there  was  little  outward  event  of  general 
interest  to  commemorate.  An  ardent  patriot,  he  chanted 
with  youthful  enthusiasm  the  high  strains  of  freedom  for  his 
country.  But  the  soul  of  the  poet,  as  poet,  was  after  all 
more  in  meditative  and  imaginative  themes.  He  was  a  deep 
student  in  tlie  manuscript  lore  of  the  middle  ages,  and  he 
drew  thence  matter  and  inspiration  for  poetry.  But  he  was 
not  a  mere  mystic  dreamer.  The  cloudy  vagueness  that  the 
German  romanticists  before  him  had  loved,  Uhland  dispelled 
from  his  verse  with  the  bright  shining  of  a  cheerful  intellect 
in  him,  which  lived  in  the  present  though  it  visited  the  past. 
The  dimness  of  twilight  became  in  him  the  clearness  of  day ; 
and  with  the  clearness  of  day  Ronmnticism  blinked  like  an 
owl,  and  disappeared.  Uhland  may  be  considered  the  last  of 
the  German  romanticists. 

The  j)eriod  of  Uhland's  chief  poetic  productiveness  was 
comparatively  short.  Like  Beranger  in  France,  Uhland  in 
Germany  sang  his  songs  early,  as  birds  sing  their  matins,  and 
ceased.  The  singer  ceased  ;  but  Uhland's  songs,  caught  up 
in  the  mouths  of  the  people,  filled  Europe  about  the  silent 
singer,  still  living,  with  the  echoes  of  his  melody. 

We  must,  of  course,  in  showing  Uhland,  begin  with  that 
little  poem  of  his,  doubtless  to  English  and  American  fame 
the  dearest  of  all   his  songs,  T/ie  Pass((ge.     The  Kdinhurfih 


294  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


Review,  of  old  date,  tlms  translates  it ;  the  translation  is 
every  thing  that  could  be  desired  for  congenial  pensive  spirit 
and  delicate  melody  of  rhythm  : 

Many  a  year  is  in  its  grave 
Since  I  crossed  this  restless  wave; 
And  tiie  evening,  fair  as  ever, 
Shines  on  ruin,  rock,  and  river. 

Then  in  this  same  boat  beside 
Sat  two  comrades  old  and  tried — 
One  witli  all  a  father's  truth, 
One  with  all  tlie  fire  of  youth. 

One  on  earth  in  silence  wrought. 
And  his  grave  in  silence  sought; 
But  the  younger,  brighter  foim 
Passed  in  battle  and  in  storm. 

So,  whene'er  I  turn  my  eye 

Back  upon  the  days  gone  hy, 

Saddening  thoughts  of  friends  come  o'er  me, 

Friends  that  closed  their  course  before  me. 

But  what  binds  us,  friend  to  friend, 
But  that  soul  with  soul  can  blend  ? 
Soul-like  were  those  days  of  yore; 
Let  us  walk  in  soul  once  more. 

Take,  0  boatman,  thrice  thy  fee — 

Take,  I  give  it  willingly  ; 

For,  invisible  to  thee, 

Spirits  twain  have  crossed  with  me. 

We  know  of  nothing  to  surpass  the  foregoing  in  sweetness 
of  sentiment  and  perfect  tit  felicity  of  form.  What  a  ha])])y 
bit  of  dramn  the  closing  stanza!  How  luckily  it  finishes  tlie 
poem,  with  that  touchingly  simple  suggestion  of  softened 
feeling,  from  remembrance,  converted  into  generosity  !  It 
would  be  pathetically  interesting  to  know,  if  one  could 
*know,  that  the  two — "one  with  all  a  father's  truth"  and 
"one  with  all  the  fire  of  youth" — were  to  be  identified  as 
the  elder  and  the  younger  Korner.  The  allusion  seems  to 
fit,  for  Korner,  the  father,  did  his  work  quietly  in  civic  action, 


The  Romancers  and  the  Romanticists.  295 

and  Theodor  Korner,  as  has  been  noted,  having  but  just  writ- 
ten his  famous  Sicord-Sonc/,  died  on  the  fiekl  of  battle  figlit- 
ing  for  the  freedom  of  Germany. 

Our  next  specimen  from  Uldand  is  a  transhition  by  Long- 
fellow.    It  is  entitled  The  Castle  hy  tlie  ISea : 

"  Hast  thou  seen  that  lordly  castle, 

That  castle  by  tlie  sea? 
Golden  and  red  above  it, 

The  clouds  float  gorgeously. 

•'And  fain  it  would  stoop  downward, 

To  tlie  mirrored  wave  below  ; 
And  fiiin  it  would  soar  upward. 

In  the  evening's  crimson  glow." 

'•  Well  have  I  seen  that  castle, 

That  castle  by  the  sea. 
And  tlie  moon  above  it  standing. 

And  the  mist  rise  solemnly." 

'•The  wmds  and  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 

Had  they  a  merry  chime? 
Didst  thou  hear,  from  those  lofty  chambers, 

Tiie  harp  and  the  minstrel's  rhyme?" 

"  The  winds  and  the  waves  of  the  ocean, 

They  rested  quietly; 
But  I  heard  on  the  gale  a  sound  of  wail. 

And  tears  came  to  mine  eye." 

"And  sawest  thou  on  the  turrets 

The  king  and  his  royal  bride. 
And  the  wave  of  their  crimson  mantles, 

And  the  golden  crown  of  pride?  " 

"  Led  they  not  forth,  in  rapture, 

A  beauteous  maiden  there, 
Resplendent  as  the  morning  sun. 

Beaming  with  golden  hair?" 

''Well  saw  I  the  ancient  parents, 
Without  the  crown  of  pride  ; 
They  were  moving  slow,  in  weeds  of  woe; 
No  maiden  was  Ijy  their  side!  " 


296  Classic  Ge^^man  Course  hi  Mtglish. 


Longfellow's  is,  on  the  whole,  a  successful  version  of 
Uhland's  poem.  It  by  no  means,  however,  perfectly  re- 
produces the  effect  of  the  original.  Tlie  Geiinan  stanzas  are 
fully  equipped  with  rhymes.  The  English  translation,  by 
omitting  a  rhyme  for  the  first  line  of  each  stanza,  loses 
not  a  little  in  melodious  impression  on  the  ear.  One  is 
surprised,  too,  that  the  translator  should,  in  the  second 
stanza,  have  said  "mirrored"  to  express  the  "mirror-clear" 
of  the  original. 

A  poem  of  more  energy,  love  no  longer  making  gentle  the 
poet,  but  indignation  making  him  fierce,  is  The  MinstrePs 
Curse.  For  our  translation  of  this  we  go  to  BlackioooiVs 
Magazine  of  forty  years  ago.  The  poem  is  a  ballad,  not  very 
long,  but  too  long  to  be  here  given  entire.  The  story  of  the 
"curse"  we  tell  in  plain  prose  of  our  own,  to  give  the  Curse 
itself  in  Uhland's  ringing  rhyme.  An  aged  minstrel  with  a 
fair  youth  visits  a  kingly  court  to  make  music  and  song. 
The  ruthless  monarch,  vexed  at  the  i)urport  and  effect  of 
their  singing,  strikes  the  youth  dead,  and  the  aged  minstrel 
strikes  back  with  his  "  curse  of  poesy  "  on  the  king  : 


"Woe!  woe!  proud  towers— dire  House  of  blood!  lliy  guilty  courts  among 

Ne'er  may  the  chords  of  harmony  be  waked— the  voice  of  song; 

Tiie  tread  of  silent  slaves  alone  shall  echo  'mid  the  gloom  ; 

Till  ruin  waits,  and  liovering  fiends  of  vengeance  shriek  thy  doom  ! 

"Woe!  woe!  ye  blooming  gardens  fair— decked  in  the  pride  of  May, 
Behold  this  flower  untimely  cropped— look— and  no  more  be  gay ! 
The  sight  should  witlier  every  leaf— make  all  your  fountains  dry, 
And  bid  the  bright  enchantment  round  in  wasteful  horror  lie! 

"  And  thou,  fell  Tyrant,  curst  for  aye,  of  all  the  tuneful  train- 
May  blighted  bays  and  bitter  scorn  mock  thy  inglorious  reign  ! 
Perish  thy  hated  name  with  thee— from  songs  and  annals  fade 
Thy  race,  thy  power,  thy  very  crimes — lost  in  oblivion's  sliade  !  " 

Tlie  aged  Bard  has  spoken,  and  Heaven  has  heard  the  prayer ; 
The  haughty  towers  are  crumbling  low— no  regal  dome  is  there! 
A  single  column  soars  on  high,  to  tell  of  splendors  past — 
And,  see!  His  cracked,  it  nods  the  /(eatZ— this  hour  may  be  its  last! 


The  iiommicers  and  the  Hoinahticists.  297 

Where  ouce  ttie  fairy  garden  smiled,  a  mournful  desert  lies — 
No  rills  refresh  tlie  barren  sand,  no  graceful  stems  arise — 
From  storied  page  and  legend  strain,  this  King  has  vanished  long ; 
His  race  is  dead — his  power  forgot — such  is  the  might  of  Song ! 

The  g-entle  genius  of  Uliland  must  not  take  liis  farewell 
of  us  in  such  a  strain  of  proplietie  doom  denounced  as  the 
foi-egoing.  Let  our  last  specimen  of  him  rather  be  that  soft, 
sweet  melody  of  his  entitled  The  Serenade.  A  child,  dying, 
speaks  with  the  watching  mother: 

"What  sounds  so  sweet  awake  me? 

What  fills  mo  with  delight? 
O,  mother,  look !  who  sings  thus 

So  sweetly  through  the  night?  " 

"  I  hear  not,  child,  I  see  not ; 

0,  sleep  thou  softly  on  ! 
Conies  now  to  serenade  thee, 

Thou  poor,  sick  maiden,  none!  " 

"  It  is  not  earthly  music, 

That  tills  me  with  delight ; 
I  hear  the  angels  call  me : 

0,  motiier,  dear,  good  nigiit!  " 

German  Romanticism  may  be  said  to  have  come  in,  half- 
unconsciously,  with  Burger,  a  poet.  It  was  fit  that  with  a 
poet,  Uliland,  it  should  vanish  away. 


XII. 

HEINE, 

1799-1856. 


Genius,  with  wit  amounting  to  genius,  joined  to  unhappy 
fortune  in  life,  makes  of  Heinrich  Heine  quite  the  most  in- 
teresting and  most  striking  literary  figure  that  has  risen 
;iiiiong  (Tcrmans  since  Goethe  ajxl  Schiller.  Among  Ger- 
mans, we  say;  but  tliis  ]»lii-ase  seems  almost  to  class  Heine 
amiss,  for   Heine  Mas   the    least   (lerman   of  (lernians.      By 


298  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

quality  of  mind  and  quality  of  heart,  by  style  of  literary 
expression,  and,  finally,  by  long  Parisian  residence,  he  half 
failed  of  his  proper  native  national  character,  and  was  less 
German  than  French. 

And,  indeed,  German  in  blood  Heine  was  not.  His  par- 
entage on  his  father's  side — on  his  mother's  side,  too,  we  be- 
lieve, though  this  seems  to  be  uncertain — was  Jewish.  At 
twenty-five  years  of  age  Heine  himself  became  a  nominal 
Lutheran  ;  but  it  was  strictly  a  nominal  Lutheran  that  he 
became.  "  Paris  is  well  worth  a  mass,"  said  Henry  of 
Navarre,  as,  for  the  sake  of  thus  winning  that  city  to  be 
his  capital,  he  lightly  went  over  to  the  Catholic  from  the 
Protestant  side.  It  was  in  a  like  spirit — so  Heine  himself 
expressly  says,  quoting  the  words  of  King  Henry — that  our 
German  jester  made  the  change  from  Judaism  to  Christian- 
ity ;  he  might  get  on  in  the  world  better  as  a  Lutheran 
than  he  could  as  a  Jew.  The  simple  truth  is  that,  in  relig- 
ion as  in  every  thing  else,  Heine,  to  the  end  oi'  his  days, 
yes,  literally  to  his  parting  breath,  was  a  mocker.  "  God 
will  forgive  me ;  that  is  his  business,"  was  one  of  his  last  gasps 
of  speech. 

Scarce  in  all  literary  history  is  there  a  picture  more  depress- 
ing than  the  picture  of  this  man  dying,  years  long,  in  agony, 
that  endless  death  of  his,  in  his  little  chamber  in  Paris.  For 
Heine — perhaps  in  retributive  result  from  a  duel  in  which 
he  was  wounded,  a  duel  occasioned  by  his  own  wanton  indul- 
gence in  ribald  reviling  regardless  of  truth — became,  in 
1848,  a  helpless,  bedridden  man,  almost  paralytic  and  al- 
most blind.  In  this  miserable  plight  he  lingered,  suffering 
frequent  paroxysms  of  exquisite  pain,  nearly  eight  years, 
during  which  he  never  went  out  of  doors — until  he  died. 
So  much  is  sad  enough,  but  so  nnich  is  not  all ;  and  what  re- 
mains is  sadder  still.  You  have  to  imagine  Heine's  features 
fixed,  all  the  while,  in  that  set  sardonic  grin,  grown  the  un- 
alterable habit  of  his  face;  or,  to  use  a  truer  figure,  galvan- 
ically  twitching  without  rest  in  a  play  of  expression  that 
changed,  indeed,  forever,  but   forever  meant  a  jeer.     Take, 


Heine.  299 

now,  one  of  the  characteristic  grim  fancies  tliat,  on  his 
death-bed,  this  thinking  skeleton  pleased  himself  horribly 
with  forging  in  verse,  and  pity,  pity  the  half-crazed  brain 
which  apparently  could  not  but  entertain,  as  it  were  auto- 
matically, such  hobgoblin  conceits.  The  genius,  the  charac- 
ter, the  misfortune,  of  Heine  are  all  present  haunting  the 
German  lines.  Our  translation,  which  we  transfer  from  an 
old  number  of  the  Atheamani  (Loudon),  is  very  good,  but  it 
inevitably  allows  the  volatile  spirit  of  the  original  in  some 
part  to  escape  : 

How  wearily  time  crawls  alono: — 

That  hideous  snail  that  hastens  not — 

While  I,  without  the  power  to  move, 
Am  ever  fixed  to  one  dull  spot. 

Upon  my  dreary  chamber-wa'l 

No  gleam  of  sunshine  can  I  trace  ; 
I  know  that  only  for  the  grave 

Shall  I  cxcliange  this  hopeless  place. 

• 

Perhaps  already  I  am  dead, 

And  these  perhaps  are  phantoms  vain — 

These  motley  phantasies  that  pass 

At  night  through  my  disordered  brain. 

Perhaps  with  ancient  heathen  shapes, 

Old  faded  gods,  this  brain  is  full ; 
Who,  for  their  most  unholy  rites, 

Have  chosen  a  dead  poet's  skull ; — 

And  charming,  frightful  orgies  hold — 
The  madcap  phantoms  ! — all  tiie  night, 

That  in  the  morning  this  dead  hand 
About  tlieir  revelries  may  write. 

Heine's  birthday  was  the  thirteenth  of  December,  1799; 
but  he  himself  jocularly  set  it  forward  to  January  1,  1800, 
in  order,  as  he  said,  that  he  might  be  one  of  the  first  men  of 
tlie  century.  (Curiously  enough,  Heine  thus,  instead  of 
making  liimself  one  of  the  first  men  of  an  opening  century, 
succeeded  only  in  making  himself  a  little  more  emphatically 
one  of  the  last  men  of  the  (U'litury  preceding.     For,  in  ])oint 


^500  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

of  fact,  the  eightoeuth  ceiiluiy  was  of  course  not  cornpleto 
until  its  liundredth  year  was  finished,  and  that  liundredtli 
year  was  the  year  1800.) 

That  he  was  born  in  Diissehlorf,  that  lie  died  in  Paris,  and 
that  between  his  birth  and  his  death  his  activity  was  that 
of  a  student  and  writer,  sums  up  Heine's  biography.  He 
went  to  Paris  to  live,  because  Paris  was  the  true  home  of 
his  soul.  He  acquired  in  Paris  the  f.ime  of  being  the  wit- 
tiest Frenchman  since  Voltaire.  But  his  wit  made  him  al- 
most friendless,  for  he  exercised  it  both  recklessly  and 
maliciously.  It  is  saying  little  to  say  that  always  he  would 
rather  lose  a  friend  than  a  jest.  Whole  nations  he  made  his 
butt.  He  jested  constantly  at  Germans  and  at  Germany ; 
but  Englishmen  he  especially  scorned.  He  verily  believed, 
he  said,  that  Goil  was  any  day  better  pleased  with  a  cursing 
Frenchmen  than  with  a  praying  Englishman. 

Heine  wrote  in  both  prose  and  verse.  The  first  prose  pro- 
duction of  his  to  make  its  author  famous  was  his  Pictures 
of  Travel.  This  work  is  still  popularly  reckoned  Heine's 
prose  masterpiece.  Its  contents  are  highly  miscellaneous. 
It  is  even  mixed  of  prose  and  verse,  for  it  contains  a  con- 
siderable number  of  Heine's  best-known  songs.  The  book, 
in  fact,  is  a  kind  of  scrap-book,  into  which  the  author  emptied 
all  the  accumulated  treasures  of  his  genius  and  his  wit,  and, 
we  must  add,  a  full  equivalent  too  of  his  ribaldry  and  his 
gall.  It  is  very  unequal  in  its  difierent  j^arts,  as  to  interest 
and  as  to  merit.  We  may,  of  course,  conscientiously  give 
our  readers  only  of  the  best — provided  we,  at  the  same  time, 
faithfully  apprise  them  that  they  would  find  the  book  as  a 
whole  somewhat  less  entertaining  than  are  the  specimen 
pages  shown  them  here. 

One  of  the  parts  into  which  the  Pictures  of  Travel  is 
divided  bears  the  title  of  Book  Le  Grand.  "  Le  Grand  "  is 
the  name  of  a  Frenchman,  one  of  Napoleon's  veterans,  to 
whom  Heine  in  his  boyhood  appears  to  have  become  genu- 
inely attached.  Le  Grand  is  a  very  important  figure  in  the 
"  book,"  which,  in  honor  to  his  memory,  is  thus  inscribed 


Heine.  HOI 

with  liis  name.     Let  us  begin  at  once  with  this  book,  open- 
ing it  at  the  sixth  chapter. 

The  author  has  previously  mentioned  his  being  born  at 
Diisseldorf.  "  Yes,  madam,"  he  resumes  and  repeats  — 
idiosyncratically  thus  addressing  himself  to  an  indefinite, 
mythical  lady,  who  stands  to  him  here  in  place  of  the  con- 
ventional "dear  reader"  of  authors  in  general — as  he  thus 
proceeds  : 

Yes,  madam,  tliere  was  I  born,  and  I  am  particular  in  calling  atten- 
tion to  this  fact,  lest  after  my  deatli  seven  cities  .  .  .  should  contend  for 
the  honor  of  having  witnessed  my  birth.  Diisseldorf  is  a  town  on  the 
Rliine,  where  about  shxteen  thousand  mortals  live,  and  wiiere  many  hun- 
dred thousands  are  buried.  .  .  .  Little  William  lies  there — and  that 
is  my  fault.  We  were  schoolmates  in  the  Franciscan  cloister,  and  were 
one  day  playing  on  that  side  of  the  building  where  the  Diissel  flows 
between  stone  walls,  and  I  said,  "  William,  do  get  the  kitten  out,  which 
has  just  fallen  in!"  and  he  cheerfully  climbed  out  on  the  board  which 
stretched  over  the  brook,  and  pulled  the  cat  out  of  the  water,  but  fell  in 
himself,  and  when  they  took  him  out  he  was  dripping  and  dead.  Tlie 
kitten  lived  to  a  good  old  age. 

The  town  of  Diisseldorf  is  very  beautiful,  and  if  you  thhik  of  it  when 
in  foreign  lands,  and  happen  at  the  same  time  to  have  been  born  there, 
strange  feelings  come  over  the  soul.  I  was  born  tiiere,  and  feel  as  if  I 
must  go  directly  home.  And  when  I  say  home  I  mean  the  Volkerstrasse 
and  the  house  where  I  was  born.  This  house  will  be  some  day  very 
remarkable,  and  I  have  sent  word  to  the  old  lady  who  owns  it  that  she  must 
not  for  her  life  sell  it.  For  the  whole  house  she  would  now  hardlj^  get  as 
much  as  the  present  which  the  green-veiled  English  ladies  will  give  the 
servant  girl  when  she  shows  them  the  room  where  I  was  born,  and  the 
hen-house  wherein  my  father  generally  imprisoned  me  for  stealing  grapes, 
and  also  the  brown  door  on  which  my  motiier  taught  me  to  write  with 
chalk.  Ah,  madam,  should  I  ever  become  a  famous  author,  it  has  cost 
m}-  poor  mother  trouljle  enough. 

The  passage  which  we  are  here  transferring  is  as  clear  as 
any  thing  in  Heine  of  what  needs  to  be  "edited"  out  of  his 
text.  But  even  here  we  have  to  be  vigilant,  and  suppress 
occasionally.  We  take  likewise  the  liberty  to  touch  hereaiul 
there  the  translation  which  we  use — that  of  C.  G.  Leland,  the 
chief  introducer  of  Heine  to  the  English-speaking  audience 
DOW  commanded  by  this  writer,  especially  for  America. 


302  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


The  vein  of  autobiographic  alhision  and  disclosure,  observ- 
able in  what  precedes,  runs  through  the  entire  work.  The 
element  of  personal  "  confession  "  qualities  every  thing  that 
is  said.  Sterne's  Seutiniental  Journey  is  no  doubt  responsible 
for  the  cast  of  Heine's  Pictures  of  Travel.  There  follows 
now  an  unlooked-for  contrast.  Against  himself,  with  his 
humorous-earnest  expectation  of  fame  as  yet  unearned,  he 
satirically  offsets  a  certain  obscure  Prince  Elector  Avho  is 
substantially  honored  with  a  bronze  statue  standing  in  the 
great  square  of  Diisseldorf.     Heine  says  : 

But  my  renown  as  yet  slumbers  in  the  marble  quarries  of  Carrara; 
the  waste  paper  laurel  with  which  they  have  bedecked  my  brow  has  not 
spread  its  perfume  through  the  wide  world,  and  tlie  green-veiled  Englisli 
ladies,  when  they  visit  Diisseldorf,  leave  the  celebrated  house  nnvisited, 
and  go  directly  to  the  Market  Place,  and  there  gaze  on  the  colossal  black 
equestrian  statue  which  stands  in  the  midst.  This  represents  tiie  Prince 
Elector,  Jan  Wilhelm.  He  wears  black  armor,  and  a  long,  hanging  wig. 
When  a  boy,  I  was  told  that  the  artist  wlio  made  this  statue  observed 
with  terror  while  it  was  being  cast  that  he  had  not  metal  enough  to  till 
the  mold,  and  then  all  the  citizens  of  the  town  came  runnmg  with  all  their 
silver  spoons,  and  threw  them  in  to  make  up  the  deficiency;  and  I  often 
stood  for  hours  before  the  statue  wondering  how  many  spoons  were  con- 
cealed in  it,  and  how  many  apple-tarts  the  silver  would  buy.  Appletarls 
were  then  my  passion— now  it  is  love,  truth,  liberty  and  crab  soup.  .  .  . 
But  I  was  speaking  of  the  equestrian  statue  which  has  so  many  silver 
spoons  in  it,  and  no  soup,  and  which  represents  the  Prince  Elector,  Jan 
Wilhelm. 

He  was  a  brave  gentleman,  'tis  reported,  and  was  himself  a  man  of 
genius.  He  founded  the  picture  gallery  in  Diisseldorf,  and  in  the  ob.serva- 
tory  there  they  show  a  very  curiously  executed  piece  of  wooden  work, 
consisting  of  one  box  within  another,  which  he  himself  had  carved  in  his 
leisure  hours,  of  which  latter  he  had  every  day  four-and-twenty. 

The  state  of  things  in  Germany,  supposed  thus  far  in  the 
description,  is  one  of  profound  peace  and  somnolency.  The 
picture  already  sketched  of  this  quiescence  is  first  empha- 
sized by  one  or  two  additional  strokes,  and  then  a  rude  contrast 
is  presented;  for  the  time  of  the  French  Revolution  succeeds. 
Heine  : 

In  those  days  princes  were  not  the  persecuted  wretches  which  they  now 

are.     Their  crowns  grew  firmly  on  their  heads,  and  at  night  they  drew 


Heine.  303 

their  caps  over  them  and  slept  in  peace,  and  their  people  slumbered  calmly 
at  their  feet,  and  when  tliey  awoke  in  the  morning  they  said,  "Good 
morning,  father!"  and  he  replied,  "Good  morning,  dear  cliildren!" 

But  there  came  a  sudden  change  over  all  this,  for  one  morning  when  we 
awoke,  and  would  say,  ''  Good  morning,  father!"  the  father  Iiad  traveled 
away,  and  in  the  whole  town  there  was  nothing  but  dumb  sorrow. 
Everywhere  there  was  a  funeral-like  expression,  and  people  slipped 
silently  ihrongh  the  market,  and  read  the  long  paper  placed  on  tiie  dcjor 
of  the  town-house.  .  .  .  An  old  invalid  soldier  from  the  Palatine 
read  it,  .  .  .  and  little  by  little  a  transparent  tear  ran  down  his  white, 
honorable  old  mustache.  I  stood  near  him,  and  asked  why  he  wept. 
And  he  replied:  "  The  Prince  Elector  has  abdicated."  And  then  he  read 
further,  and  at  the  words  "  for  the  long-manifested  IMelity  of  my  subjects," 
"and  iiereby  release  you  from  allegiance,"  he  wept  still  more.  It  is  a 
strange  sight  lo  see,  when  so  old  a  man,  in  faded  uniform,  with  a  scarred 
veteran's  face,  suddenly  bursts  into  tears.  Wliile  we  read,  the  Princely 
Electoral  coat-of-arms  was  being  taken  down  from  the  Town  Hall,  and 
every  thing  began  lo  appear  as  miserably  dreary  as  though  we  were  wait- 
ing for  an  eclipse  of  the  sun.  The  gentlemen  town  councilors  went 
about  at  an  abdicating,  wearisome  gait ;  even  the  omnipotent  beadle  looked 
as  though  he  had  no  more  commands  to  give.  .  .  .  But  I  went  home, 
weeping  and  lamenti.'jg,  because  "the  Prince  Elector  had  abducted !" 

By  the  word  "abducted"  here,  used  instead  of  "abdi- 
cated," Mr.  Leland  seeks  to  represent  an  ignorant  blunder  in 
language  committed  by  the  people,  and  unconsciously  repeat- 
ed by  the  boy  Heine  in  reporting  to  liis  mother  from  their 
mouths  what  liad  happened.  Mr,  Leland's  device  is  ingenious, 
1)ut  the  effect  of  the  humor  is  hardly  thus  reproduced  for  the 
Kngli.sh  reader.  Heine  i)roceeds — relating  a  dream  that  lie 
professes  to  have  had  on  the  occasion.  This  is  probably,  for 
the  most  part,  a  forgery  of  the  waking  mature  brain  of  the 
writer;  but  at  all  events  it  forms  satire  as  exquisite  as  ever 
was  written.  It  is,  by  the  way,  a  favorite  trick  of  Heine's  to 
have  symbolic  dreams  of  all  sorts,  both  in  his  prose  and  in 
his  verse.     Heine  : 

My  mother  had  trouble  enough  to  explain  the  word,  but  I  would  hear 
nothing.  I  knew  what  I  knew,  and  went  weeping  to  bed,  and  in  the  night 
dreamed  that  the  world  had  come  to  an  end — that  all  the  fair  flower  gar- 
dens and  green  meadows  of  the  world  were  taken  up  and  rolled  up,  and 
put  away  like  carpets  and  baize  fr^m  the  floor:  that  a  beadle  climbed  up  on 


304  Classic  German  Course  In  JEiiyllsh. 


a  high  ladder  and  took  down  the  sun,  and  tliat  the  tailor,  Kilian,  stood  b}' 
•  and  said  to  himself:  "  I  must  go  home  and  dress  myself  neatly,  for  I  am 
dead,  and  am  to  be  buried  this  afternoon."  And  it  grew  darker  and  darker — 
a  few  stars  glimmered  sparely  on  high,  and  these  at  length  fell  down  like 
yellow  leaves  in  autumn.  One  by  one  all  men  vanished,  and  I,  a  poor 
child,  wandered  in  anguish  around,  until  before  the  willow  fence  of  a 
deserted  farm-house  I  saw  a  man  digging  up  the  earth  witii  a  spado,  and 
near  him  an  ugly,  spiteful-looking  woman,  who  held  something  in  her 
apron  like  a  human  head — but  it  was  the  moon,  and  she  laid  it  carefully 
iu  the  open  grave — and  behind  me  stood  the  Palatine  invalid,  sighing  and 
spelling,  "  The  Prince  Elector  has  abducted." 

In  what  follows  the  allusion  is  to  Murat,  Napoleon's  gal- 
lant marshal,  made  "  Arch-Duke  Joachim  "  in  succession  to 
the  "  abducting  "  Prince  Elector.  The  mention  of  the  "  bar- 
ber "  will  be  better  understood  if  it  be  borne  in  mind  that  the 
German  custom  is  for  the  barber  to  visit  his  customers  pro- 
fessionally at  their  houses.  What  could  be  more  lively, 
and  more  life-like,  than  this  description  of  that  morning's 
occurrences  in  Diisseldorf,  as  seen  from  a  boy's  point  of  view  ? 
Heine's  admiration  for  the  French  incidentally  comes  out: 

When  I  awoke,  the  sun  shone  as  usual  through  the  window.  Thei'e 
was  a  sound  of  drums  in  the  street,  and  as  I  entered  the  sitting  room  and 
wished  my  father,  who  was  sitting  in  his  white  dressing-gown,  a  good- 
morning,  I  heard  the  little  light-footed  barber,  as  he  made  up  his  hair, 
narrate  very  minutely  that  homage  would  that  morning  be  ofifered  at  the 
Town  Hall  to  the  Arch-Duke  Joachim.  I  heard,  too,  that  the  new  ruler 
was  of  excellent  family — that  he  had  married  the  sister  of  the  Emperor 
Napoleon,  and  was  really  a  very  respectable  man — that  he  wore  his  beauti- 
ful black  hair  in  flowing  locks,  that  he  would  shortly  enter  the  town,  and 
in  fine  that  he  must  please  all  the  ladies.  Meanwhile,  the  drumming  in 
the  streets  continued,  and  I  stood  before  the  housu-door  and  looked  at  the 
French  troops  marching  in  that  joyful  race  of  fame,  who,  singing  paid 
playing,  swept  over  the  world  ;  the  merry,  serious  faces  of  the  grenadiers ; 
the  bear-skin  shakos;  the  tricolored  cockades;  the  glittering  ba3^onets; 
the  voltigeurs  full  of  vivacity  and  imi/iit  (Vhonnenr,  and  the  omnipotent,  giant- 
like, silver-laced  Tambour  Major,  who  cast  liis  hafon  with  a  gilded  head  as 
high  as  the  second  story,  and  his  eyes  to  the  third,  where  pretty  girl^ 
gazed  from  the  windows?.  I  was  so  glad  that  soldiers  were  to  be  quartered 
hi  our  house — in  which  my  motiier  differed  from  me — and  I  hastened  to 
the  market-place.  There  every  thing  looked  changed — somewhat  as 
though  the  world  had  been  new  whitevvashed.     A  new  coat-of-arms  was 


Heine.  305 

placed  on  the  Town  Hall;  its  iron  balconies  weio  Imng  with  embroidered 
velvet  drapery.  French  grenadiers  stood  as  sentinels;  the  old  gentlemen 
town  councilors  had  put  on  new  faces,  and  donned  their  Sunday  coats, 
and  looked  at  each  other  Frenchily,  and  said  '^  Boa  jour .'" ;  ladies  looked 
from  every  window ;  curious  citizens  and  armed  soldiers  filled  the  square, 
and  I,  with  other  bo^'S,  climbed  on  the  great  bronze  horse  of  the  Prince 
Elector,  and  thence  gazed  down  on  the  motley  crowd. 

In  tlie  humor  of  what  now  follows  we  recognize  a  style  of 
representation  whicli  much  use  has  made  but  too  familiar 
in  America.  There  must  have  been,  one  would  say,  a  direct 
transplantation  from  this  very  place  in  Heine  : 

Our  neighbor's  Peter,  and  tall  Jack  Short,  nearly  l)roke  their  uecks  in 
accomplishing  this  feat,  and  it  would  have  been  better  if  they  had  been 
killed  outright,  for  the  one  afterward  ran  away  from  his  parents,  enlisted 
as  a  soldier,  deserted,  and  was  finally  shot  in  Mayeuce,  while  the  other, 
having  made  geographical  researches  in  strange  pockets,  was  on  this  ac- 
count elected  member  of  a  public  tread-mill  institute.  But  having  broken 
the  iron  bands  which  bound  him  to  his  fatherland,  he  passed  safely  beyond 
sea,  and  eventually  died  in  London,  in  consequence  of  wearing  a  much  too 
long  cravat,  one  end  of  which  happened  to  be  firmly  attached  to  some- 
thing, just  as  a  royal  oEBcial  removed  a  plank  from  beneath  his  feet. 

Let  our  readers  remember,  in  enjoying  the  admirable  rail- 
lery of  the  passage  next  to  be  submitted — we  condense  it 
from  the  seventh  chapter  of  that  same  Hook  Xe  Grand — 
that  what  is  taken  off  so  wittily,  and  withal  so  sensibly, 
by  Heine,  is  really  not  the  studies  themselves  of  which  he 
speaks,  but  only  the  absurd  lack  of  proportion  with  which 
these  seem  to  have  been  taught.  The  connection  of  the  pres- 
ent extract  with  the  one  preceding  is  immediate,  except  that 
a  brief  paragraph  has  been  omitted  by  us  at  the  close  of 
chapter  sixth  : 

The  next  day  the  world  was  agnin  all  in  order,  and  we  had  school  as 
before,  and  things  were  got  by  heart  as  before — the  Roman  emperors, 
ciu'onology — the  nomina  in  im,  the  verba  irregularia — Greek,  Hebrew, 
geography,  German,  mental  aritlmietic — ah!  my  head  is  still  giddy  with 
it! — all  must  V)e  thoroughly  learned.  And  much  of  it  was  eventually  to 
my  advantage.  Forbad  I  not  learned  the  Roman  emperors  by  heart  it 
would  subsequently  have  been  a  matter  of  perfect  indifference  to  me 
whether  Niebuhr  had  or  had   not    proved  that  tliey  never  really  existed. 


306  Classic  German  Course  in  JEnglish. 

And  had  I  not  learned  the  numbers  of  the  different  years,  how  could  I 
ever,  in  later  years,  have  found  out  any  one  in  Berlin,  where  one  house 
is  as  like  another  as  drops  of  water,  or  as  grenadiers,  and  where  it  is  im- 
possible to  find  a  friend  unless  you  have  the  number  of  his  house  in  j'our 
head.  Therefore  I  associated  with  every  friend  some  historical  event 
which  had  happened  in  a  year  corresponding  to  the  number  of  liis 
house,  so  that  the  one  recalled  the  other,  and  some  curious  points  in  his- 
tory always  occurred  to  me  whenever  I  met  any  one  whom  I  visited. 
For  instance,  when  I  met  my  tailor  I  at  once  tliought  of  the  battle  of 
Marathon;  if  I  saw  the  banker,  Christian  Gumpel,  I  remembered  the 
destruction  of  Jerusalem ;  if  a  Portuguese  friend,  deeply  in  debt,  of  the  flight 
of  Mahomet;  if  the  university  judge,  a  man  whose  probity  is  well 
known,  of  the  death  of  Haman.  .  .  . 

0,  the  trouble  I  had  at  school  with  my  learning  to  count! — and  it  went 
even  worse  with  the  ready  reckoning.  I  understood  best  of  all  subtraction, 
and  for  this  I  had  a  very  practical  rule — "Four  can't  be  taken  from  three, 
therefore  I  must  borrow  one  " ;  but  I  advise  all,  in  such  a  case,  to  borrow 
a  few  extra  dollars,  for  no  one  can  tell  what  may  happen. 

But  01  the  Latin ! — madam,  you  can  really  have  no  idea  of  what  a  mess 
it  is.  The  Romans  would  never  have  found  time  to  conquer  the  world 
if  they  had  been  obliged  first  to  learn  Latin.  Lucky  dogs!  they  already 
knew  in  their  cradles  the  nouns  ending  in  im.  I,  on  the  contrary,  had  to 
learn  it  by  heart,  in  the  sweat  of  my  brow,  but  still  it  is  well  that  I  knew 
it.  For  if  I,  for  example,  when  I  publicly  disputed  in  Latin,  in  the  Col- 
lege hall  of  Goltingen,  on  the  20tli  of  July,  1825 — madam,  it  was  well 
worth  while  to  hear  it — if  I,  I  say,  had  said,  sinaptm  instead  of  sinapim, 
the  blunder  would  have  been  evident  to  the  freshmen,  and  an  endless 
shame  to  me.  Vis,  huris,  sitis,  tiossis,  cucumis,  amiossis,  cannabis,  sinapis — 
these  words  which  have  attracted  so  much  attention  in  the  world,  effected 
this  inasmuch  as  they  belonged  to  a  determined  class,  and  yet  were 
withal  an  exception.  And  the  fact  that  I  have  them  ready  at  my  fingers' 
ends  when  I  perhaps  need  them  in  a  iiiuTy,  often  affords  me  in  life's 
darkened  hours  much  internnl  tranquillity  and  spiritual  consolation. 

The  topsy-tixrvy  introduced  by  the  revolutionary  French 
into  the  political  geography  of  Europe,  and  the  beneficent 
changes,  as  well,  that  took  place,  or  began  to  take  place,  in 
tlie  condition  especially  of  the  German  people,  under  the 
disturbing  initiative  of  Napoleon,  are  now  described  with  a 
wit  and  a  humor,  the  secret  of  which,  in  their  fine  und  their 
incalculable  quality,  perished  with  Heinrich  Heine : 

I  avail  myself  of  this  opportunity  to  mention,  madam,  that  it  was  not 
my  fault,  iC  I  learned  so  little  of  geography  that  later  in  life  I  could  not  make 


Heine.  307 

my  way  in  tlie  world.  For  in  those  daj's  the  Freiicli  made  an  intricate 
mixture  of  all  Hniits  aud  boundaries;  ever}'  day  lauds  were  re-colored  on 
the  world's  map ;  those  which  were  once  blue  suddenly  became  green ; 
many,  indeed,  were  even  dyed  blood-red ;  the  old  established  rules  were  so 
confused  and  confounded  that  the  devil  himself  would  never  liave  remem- 
bered them.  The  products  of  the  country  were  also  changed,  chicory 
and  beets  now  grew  where  only  hares,  and  hunters  running  after  ihcm, 
were  once  to  be  seen;  even  the  character  of  different  races  changed,  the 
Germans  became  pliant,  the  French  paid  compliments  no  longer,  the  En- 
glish ceased  making  ducks  and  drakes  of  their  money,  and  the  Venetians 
were  not  subtle  enough ;  there  was  promotion  among  princes,  old  kings 
obtained  new  uniforms,  new  kingdoms  were  cooked  up  and  sold  like  hot 
cakes,  many  potentates  were  chased,  on  the  other  hand,  from  house  and 
home,  and  had  to  find  some  new  way  of  earning  their  bread,  while  others 
went  at  once  at  a  trade,  and  manufactured,  for  instance,  sealing-wax,  or — 
madam,  this  paragraph  must  be  brought  to  an  end,  or  I  sliall  be  out  of 
breath— in  fine,  in  such  times  it  is  impossible  to  advance  far  in  geography. 
I  succeeded  better  in  natural  history,  for  there  we  find  fewer  changes,  and 
we  always  have  standard  engravings  of  apes,  kangaroos,  zebras,  rhi- 
noceroses, etc.,  etc.  And  having  many  such  pictures  in  my  memory,  it 
often  happens  that  at  first  sight  many  mortals  appear  to  me  like  old  ac- 
quaintances. 

Monsieur  Le  Grand,  the  Frenchman,  after  whom  the  pres- 
ent "book"  is  nameil,  gets  painted,  "drum"  and  all,  into 
Heine's  picture : 

How  much  do  I  not  owe  to  the  Frencli  drummer  who  was  so  long  quar- 
tered in  our  house,  who  looked  like  the  devil,  and  yet  had  the  good  heart 
of  an  angel,  and  who  above  all  this  drummed  so  divinely.  He  was  a  little 
nervous  figure,  with  a  terrible  black  mustache,  beneath  which  red  lips 
came  bounding  suddenly  outward,  while  his  wild  eyes  shot  fiery  glances 
all  round.  I,  a  young  shaver,  stuck  to  him  like  a  bur,  and  helped  him 
to  clean  his  military  buttons  till  they  shone  like  mirrors,  and  to  pipe-clay 
his  vest — for  Monsieur  Le  Grand  liked  to  look  well — and  I  followed  him 
to  the  watch,  to  the  roll-call,  to  tlie  parade — in  those  times  there  was 
nothing  but  the  gleam  of  weapons  and  merriment— fesyoiirs  de  fete  sont 
passes!  [the  holidays  are  over!]  Monsieur  Le  Grand  knew  but  a  little 
broken  German,  only  the  three  principal  words  in  every  (ongue — "  bread  " 
"kiss,"  "honor" — but  he  could  make  hituself  very  intelligible  with  his 
drum.  For  instance,  if  I  knew  not  what  the  word  libe7-ie  meant,  he 
drummed  the  MorseMlnise — amd  I  understood  him.  .  .  .  lie  once  wanted 
toexjlain  to  me  the  word  V AJkniagne  [look  out  now  for  one  of  Heine's 
.slants  at  GermanyJ,  and  he  drummed  the  all  too  dinjile  melody,  which  on 


308  Classic  German  Com'se  in  English. 

market  daj'S  is  plaj'ed  to  dancing  dogs,  namely,  dum — dum — dumb !  I  was 
vexed — but  I  understood  him,  for  all  that. 

Napoleon  Bonaparte  is  the  great  hero  of  Hehie.  We  can- 
not blame  the  hero-worshiper  in  this  case,  cannot  wonder 
that  he  worshiped.  We  must  remember  that  Heine  Avas  a 
German  Jew,  and  that  the  German  Jew  before  Napoleon  was 
little  better  treated  than  a  hunted  wild  beast.  Napoleon 
changed  all  that.  Let  us  then  bear  cheerfully  with  Heine,  while 
he  chants  his  pjean  to  the  emancipator  of  his  race.  Once, 
barely  once,  the  boy  Heinrich  saw  his  demigod  with  his  own 
eyes  ;  his  chief  early  impression  of  Napoleon  he  got  through 
Monsieur  Le  Grand  and  his  "drum" — that  hermeneutic 
drum  !  Shall  we  even  let  Heine  build  for  us  now  his  dithy- 
rambics  in  "The  Emperoi's"  praise,  till  he  rears  them  almost 
to  the  height  of  impious  audacity  ?  It  will  be  but  a  very 
slight  hint  that  we  shall  thus  give  of  the  blasphemy  of 
which  Heine  was  capable — and  capable,  alas!  upon  occasions 
not  affording,  as  this  occ.ision  affords,  extenuation  of  his  sin. 
Heine  (and  now  we  give  him  here  his  course  unchecked,  save 
by  omissions,  to  the  end  of  two  short  chapters  more  of  Book 
Le  Grand): 

Wiien  I  tliink  of  the  great  emperor  all  iu  my  memor}'  again  becomes 
summer-green  and  golden.  ...  I  often  lay  upon  the  bank,  and  piously 
listened  there  when  Monsieur  Le  Grand  told  of  the  warlike  feats  of  the 
great  emperor,  beating  meanwhile  the  marches  which  were  drummed 
during  the  deeds,  so  that  I  saw  and  heard  all  to  the  life.  1  saw  tlie 
passage  over  the  Simplon,  the  emperor  in  advance,  and  his  brave  gren- 
adiers climbing  on  behind  him.  while  llie  scream  of  frightened  birds  of 
prey  sounded  aiound,  and  avalanches  timndered  in  the  distance;  I  saw 
the  emperor  with  flag  in  hand  on  the  bridge  of  Lodi ;  I  saw  the  emperor 
in  his  gray  cloak  at  Marengo;  I  saw  the  emperor  mounted  in  tlie  battle 
of  the  Pyramids,  naught  around  save  powder,  smoke,  and  Mamelukes ;  I 
saw  the  emperor  in  the  battle  of  Austerhtz — ha!  how  the  bullets  whistled 
over  the  smootli,  icy  road  !  I  saw,  I  heard  the  battle  of  Jena— dw/i,  dum, 
dum ;  I  saw,  I  heard  the  battles  of  Eylau,  of  Wagram — no,  I  could  hardly 
stand  it!  Monsieur  Le  Grand  drummed  so  that  I  nearly  burst  my  own 
sheepskin. 

But  wlnit  were  my  feelings  when  I  first  saw  with  highly  blest,  and  with 
my  own,  e)es,  ]iiin — hosanuali ! — the  emperor!  .  .  .  The  trembling  trees 


Heine.  309 

bowed  toward  him  as  he  advanced ;  the  sun-ra3's  quivered,  frightened, 
yet  curiouslj',  tlirougli  the  green  leaves,  and  in  the  bUie  heaven  above  there 
swam  visibly  a  golden  star.  The  emperor  wore  his  iu visible-green  uni- 
(brni  and  the  little  world-renowned  hat.  He  rode  a  white  palfrey  which 
stopped  with  such  calm  pride,  so  confidently,  so  nobly,  had  I  then  been 
Crown  Prince  of  Prussia  I  should  have  envied  that  horse.  The  em- 
peror sat  carelessly,  almost  lazily,  holding  with  one  hand  his  rein  and 
with  the  other  good-naturedly  patting  the  neck  of  the  horse.  It  was  a 
sunny,  marble  hand,  amigiity  h;uid — one  of  the  pair  whicli  bomid  fast  the 
manji'-headed  monster  of  anarchy,  and  reduced  to  order  the  war  of  races, 
and  it  good-naturedly  patted  the  neck  of  the  horse.  Even  the  face  had  that 
hue  whicli  we  find  in  the  marble  Greek  and  Roman  busts,  the  traits  were 
as  nobly  proportioned  as  in  the  antiques,  and  on  that  countenance  was 
plainly  written,  "Thou  shalt  have  no  gods  before  nic!"  .  .  .  It  was  au 
eye  clear  as  heaven;  it  could  read  the  hearts  of  men  ;  it  saw  at  a  glance 
all  tilings  at  once,  and  as  they  were,  in  this  world,  while  we,  ordinary 
mortals,  see  them  only  one  by  one,  and  by  their  shaded  hues.  The  brow  was 
not  so  clear,  the  phantoms  of  future  battles  were  nestling  there,  and  there 
was  a  quiver  which  swept  over  the  brow,  and  those  were  the  creative 
thoughts,  the  great  seven-milc-l)oots  thoughts,  wherewith  the  spirit  of 
the  emperor  strode  invisibly  over  the  world  ;  and  I  believe  that  every  one 
of  those  thoughts  would  have  given  to  a  German  author  full  material 
wherewith  to  write  all  the  days  of  his  life. 

The  emperor  is  dead.  On  a  waste  island  in  tlic  Indian  Sea  lies  his 
lonely  grave ;  and  he  for  whom  the  world  was  too  narrow  lies  silently 
under  a  little  hillock,  where  five  weeping  willows  hang  their  green  heads, 
and  a  gentle  little  brook,  murmuring  sorrowfully,  ripples  by.  There  is  no 
inscription  on  his  tomb;  but  Clio,  with  unerring  pen.  has  written  thereon 
invisible  words,  which  will  resound,  like  spirit-tones,  through  thousands 
of  years.  .  .  .  Strange  !  A  terrible  destiny  has  already  overtaken  the  three 
greatest  enemies  of  the  emperor.  Londonderry  [Lord  Castlereagh,  Britisli 
foreign  secretary  during  the  final  struggle  with  Napoleon]  has  cut  his 
throat,  Louis  XVIII.  has  rotted  away  on  his  throne,  and  Professor  Saalfcld 
is  still,  as  before.  Professor  in  Gottingen. 

That  last  stroke  about  the  Gottingen  professor  !  Wliat 
concentration  is  there  of  Heine's  memorable  contempt  for 
his  own  university  ! 

A  very  important  feature  of  the  Pictures  of  Travel,  as  of 
most  of  Heine's  works,  is  the  ribaldry,  now  blasphemous,  now 
lewd,  which  it  contains.  Another  unhappy  thing  in  the  book 
is  the  inconceivably  venomous  personal  vituperation  vented 
in  it  by  Ucine,     Von  Platen,  a  brother-poet  of  tlie  author, 


310  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

is,  through  page  after  page,  elaborately  jeered  at  with  a 
witty  bitterness  of  vulgar  malica  probably  not  paralleled  in 
literature,  or,  if  paralleled,  paralleled  only  elsewhere  in 
Heine's  own  works.  From  this  spiteful  tirade  a  specimen 
extract  or  two  must  suffice  the  present  purpose.  Heine 
says  : 

Everywliere  in  Platen's  poems  we  see  the  ostrich,  which  only  hides 
its  hecad ;  the  vain,  wealv  bird,  which  has  the  most  beautiful  plumage,  and 
yet  cannot  fly ;  and  which,  ever  quarrelsome,  stumbles  along  over  the 
polemic  sandy  desert  of  literature.  With  his  fine  feathers,  without  the 
power  to  soar,  with  his  fine  verse,  without  poetic  flight,  he  is  the  very 
opposite  to  that  eagle  of  song  who,  with  less  brilliant  wings,  still  rises  to 
the  sun.     I  must  turn  to  my  old  refrain:  Count  Platen  is  no  poet.  .  .  . 

I  cannot  avoid  mentiouing  that  Count  Platen  has  often  assured  the 
public  that  in  days  as  yet  to  come  he  will  compose  the  most  remarkable 
poetry  of  which  no  one  has  as  yet  even  a  presentiment;  yes,  and  that  lie 
will  publish  Iliads  and  Odysseys  and  classic  tragedies,  and  similar  im- 
mortally colossal  poems,  after  he  has  toiled  so  or  so  many  lustrums. 
Reader,  you  have,  perhaps,  read  some  of  these  outpourings  of  self-con- 
sciousness in  his  laboriously  filed  verses,  and  the  promise  of  such  a 
glorious  future  was  probably  the  pleasanter  to  you,  when  the  count,  at 
the  same  time,  represented  all  the  contemporarj'  German  poets,  with  the 
exception  of  the  aged  Goethe,  as  a  set  of  nasty  wretches  who  only  stood 
in  his  way  on  the  path  to  immortality,  and  who  were  so  devoid  of  shame 
as  to  pluck  the  laurels  and  the  praise  which  of  right  belonged  to  him 
alone. 

Heine  taunts  Platen  with  his  poverty,  and  is,  besides,  foul 
in  his  scurrility  beyond  belief.  The  man  whom  he  thus 
bespattered  with  filth  was  true  poet  enough  to  write  the 
following  very  striking  verses  on  the  abdication  of  Charles 
V.  of  Spain  and  his  retirement  to  a  monastery.  Our  trans- 
lation is  kindly  furnished  by  Miss  Elizabeth  Sihler,  of  Fort 
Wayne,  Indiana : 

'Tis  night,  the  tempest  rages  more  and  more; 
Ye  Spanish  monks,  now  ope  to  me  your  door. 

Here  let  me  rest  till  sounds  the  convent  bell 
That  frightens  you  to  church,  your  beads  to  tell. 

Prepare  for  me  all  that  your  house  affords. 
The  order's  garb,  a  cofQn — without  words. 


Heine.  311 

Grant  me  a  cell,  nor  do  ray  vow  decline, 

More  tlian  one  half  of  all  this  v/orld  was  mine. 

The  head  that  meekly  bowetli  to  be  shorn, 
Full  many  a  kingly  diadem  hath  worn. 

The  shoulders  that  the  cowl  would  humblj'  bear 
Were  wont  imperial  ermine  once  to  wear. 

To  be  as  are  the  dead  is  my  desire — 
A  crumbling  ruin,  like  the  old  empire. 

What  beauty  could  dwell  with  what  deformity,  in  a  single 
human  breast,  the  contrast  of  Heine's  attack  on  Platen  with 
the  following  strain  of  pensive  sentiment  from  the  same  source 
may  serve  to  show.  Heine,  the  youth,  is  looking  forward  to 
Heine,  the  old  man.  The  vision  that  he  sees  is  not  the  vis- 
ion that  will  be.  Heine's  locks,  we  believe,  never  whitened; 
his  beard  is  by  observers  described  as  having  flowed,  large 
and  long,  in  raven  black,  over  the  clothes  that  covered  him  in 
his  bed  of  suffering  at  Paris.  All,  in  short,  was  to  be  very 
different  from  the  dream  that  he  dreamed  ;  but  here  is  the 
dream  : 

But  a  da}'  must  come  when  the  fire  of  youth  will  be  quenched  in  my 
veins,  when  winter  will  dwell  in  my  heart,  when  his  snow-flakes  will 
whiten  my  locks,  and  his  mists  will  dim  my  eyes.  Then  my  friends  will 
lie  in  tkeir  lonely  graves,  and  I  alone  shall  remain  like  a  solitary  stalk  for- 
gotten by  tlie  reaper.  A  new  race  will  have  sprung  up  with  new  desires 
and  new  ideas,  full  of  wonder.  I  hear  new  names  and  listen  to  new 
songs,  for  the  old  names  are  forgotten,  and  I  myself  am  forgotten,  per- 
haps honored  by  but  few,  scorned  by  many  and  loved  by  none  I  And  then 
the  rosy-cheeked  boys  will  spring  around  me  and  place  the  old  harp  in  my 
trembling  hand  and  say,  laughing,  "  Thou  indolent,  gray-headed  old  man, 
sing  ns  again  songs  of  the  dreams  of  th}'^  youth." 

Then  I  will  grasp  the  harp,  and  my  old  joys  and  sorrows  will  awake, 
tears  will  again  gleam  on  my  pale  cheeks.  Spring  will  bloom  once  more 
in  my  breast,  sweet  tones  of  woe  will  tremble  on  the  harp-strings.  I 
shall  see  once  more  the  blue  flood  and  the  marble  palaces,  and  the  lovely 
faces  of  ladies  and  young  girls — and  1  will  sing  a  song  of  the  flowers  of 
Brenta  [a  little  stream  of  Italy]. 

It  will  be  my  last  song,  the  stars  will  gaze  on  me  as  in  the  nights  of 
my  youth,  J;he  loving  moonligiit  will  once  more  kiss  my  cheeks,  the  spirit 
chorus  of  nightingales  long  dead  will   sound  from  afar,   my  eyes  intox- 


312  Classic  German  Course  in  A'/u/lish. 


icated  with  sleep  will  softly  close,  my  soul  will  re-echo  witli  the  notes  of 
my  harp— perfume  breaths  from  the  flowers  of  the  Brenta. 

A  tree  will  shadow  my  grave.  I  would  gladly  have  it  a  palm,  but  that 
tree  will  not  grow  in  the  North.  It  will  be  a  linden,  and  of  a  summer  even- 
ing lovers  will  sit  there  caressing ;  the  green  finches  will  be  listening 
silemly,  and  my  linden  will  rustle  protectingly  over  the  heads  of  the 
happy  ones,  who  will  be  so  happy  that  they  will  have  no  time  to  read 
what  is  written  on  the  while  tombstone.  But  when,  at  a  later  dav  the 
lover  has  lost  his  love,  then  he  will  come  again  to  the  well-known 
linden,  and  sigh  and  weep,  and  gaze  long  and  oft  upon  the  stoue  until  he 
reads  the  inscription:   "  He  loved  the  flowers  of  the  Brenta." 

Those  who  know  Bryant's  exquisite  little  poem  entitled 
June  will  think  of  the  parallel  between  one  stanza  of  that 
and  the  last  lovely  imagining  of  Heine's  young  dream,  dream 
never  to  be  realized,  of  his  own  end  of  life. 

If  the  ill  taste  from  that  vile  passage  about  Platen  has  not 
yet  yielded  quite  on  the  palate  of  the  reader,  let  him  take 
the  following.  The  scene  is,  no  matter  where;  the  time,  no 
matter  when — only  it  is  still  youth  : 

From  my  heart  poured  out  the  feeling  of  love;  it  poured  forth  witli 
wild  longing  into  the  broad  niglit.  The  flowers  in  the  garden  beneath 
my  window  breathed  a  stronger  perfume.  Perfumes  are  the  feelings  of 
flowers,  and  as  the  human  lieart  feels  most  powerful  emotions  in  the  night, 
when  it  believes  itself  to  be  alone  and  unperceived,  so,  also,  do  the  flow- 
ers, soft-minded,  yet  ashnmed,  appear  to  wait  for  concealing  darkness, 
that  they  may  give  tiiemselves  wholly  up  to  their  feelings,  and  breailie 
them  out  in  sweet  odors.  Pour  fortli,  ye  perfumes  of  my  heart,  and  seek 
beyond  you  blue  mountain  for  the  loved  one  of  my  dreams!  Noiu  she 
lies  in  slumber,  at  her  feet  kneel  angels,  and  if  she  smiles  in  sleep  it  is  a 
prayer  which  angels  repeat;  in  her  breast  is  heaven  with  all  its  raptures, 
and  as  she  breathes,  my  heart,  though  afar,  throbs  responsively.  Behind 
the  silken  lids  of  her  eyes  the  stm  has  gone  down,  and  wlien  they  are 
raised  tlie  sun  rises,  and  birds  sing  and  the  bells  of  tlie  flock  tinkle,  and 
I  strap  on  my  knapsack  and  depart. 

This  dreamer,  more  deliciously  sentimental  than  Rousseau, 
than  Chateaubriand,  far  more  so  than  the  author  of  the 
Sorrows  of  Young  Werther,  can  strike  with  quite  equal  power 
a  quite  other  string.  What  exquisite  satire  on  blind  admira- 
tion of  genius— perhaps,  too,  on  the  genius  itself  blindly 
admired — is  conveyed  in  the  following  account  of 'a  con  versa- 


Heine.  313 

tion  about  Goethe  and  Schiller,  in  which  four  persons  were 
engaged,  two  youths,  a  lady,  and  himself,  the  veracious 
reporter  : 

.  .  .  One  of  tliem,  a  long,  lean  youth,  full  of  quicksilver,  and  who  looked 
like  a  barometer,  praised  the  virtue  and  purity  of  Schiller,  while  the  other, 
also  a  long,  up-sprouted  young  man,  lisped  verses  from  the  "Dignity  of 
Woman,"  smiling  meanwhile  as  sweetly  us  a  donkey  who  has  stuck  his 
head  into  a  pitcher  of  molasses  and  delightedly  licks  his  lips. 

Both  of  the  youths  confirmed  their  assertions  with  the  refrain,  "But 
he  is  still  greater.  He  is  really  greater,  in  fact.  He  is  the  greater,  I 
assure  you  upon  my  honor  he  is  greater."  The  lady  was  so  amiable  as  to 
bring  me,  too,  into  this  aesthetic  conversation  and  inquire,  "  Doctor,  what 
do  you  think  of  Goeihe  ?  "  I,  however,  crossed  my  arms  on  my  breast, 
bowed  my  head  as  a  believer,  and  said.  La  illali  ill  allah  wamohammed 
rasul  allah ! 

For  bewildering  effect  of  raillery,  doubtful  whether  more 
against  Goethe  himself  or  more  against  Goethe's  deifying 
admirers,  what  could  possibly  surpass  that  unintelligible 
final  jargon,  with  its  murmur  of  "  Allah,"  muttered  with 
the  gesture,  and  as  if  in  the  dialect,  of  a  Mohammedan 
devotee? 

But  we  must  not  forget  that  Heine  was  a  poet  as  well  as 
a  prose  writer — and  a  poet,  too,  even  in  the  Pictures  of 
Travel.  Here  is  a  song  of  his  from  that  book,  a  song  which 
every  one  already  knows  by  heart,  but  which,  for  that  very 
reason,  no  one  would  wish  to  miss  from  these  pages.  It  is 
"  The  Lorelei."  Its  pretended  legend — so  we  have  seen  it 
stated  as  if  by  one  who  knew — is  the  fabrication  of  a  modern 
poet's  brain.  But  Heine  adopted  it,  and  he  has  fairly  sung 
it,  and  forever,  into  the  folk-lore  of  the  Rhine.  They  shoAV 
you  the  eddy,  the  rapid,  in  the  current  of  the  river,  where 
Heine's  "maiden  wondrous  fair"  still  sits,  as  truly  as  ever  she 
did,  singing  her  "wonderful  melody."  The  reader  must  not 
lose  the  peculiar  Heine-like  turn  into  lightness  from  pathos 
with  which  the  song  closes.  Mr.  C.  P.  Cranch  is  the  trans- 
lator we  choose.  Many  hands  have  tried  their  cunning  on 
this  piece  to  produce  it  in  an  English  form,  but  no  i)ne 
14 


314  Classic  German  Course  in  EnglisJi. 

else,  in   our  opinion,  has   succeeded    quite   as  Mr.    Craneli 

has  done  : 

I  know  not  wliat  it  presages, 

This  lieart  with  sadness  fraught; 
'Tis  a  tale  of  the  olden  ages 

That  will  not  I'rom  my  thought. 

Tlie  air  grows  cool  and  darkles  ; 

The  Rhine  flows  calmly  on ; 
The  mountain  summit  sparkles 

In  the  light  of  the  setting  suu. 

There  sits,  in  soft  reclining, 

A  maiden  wondrous  fair, 
With  golden  raiment  shining 

And  combing  her  golden  hair. 

With  a  comb  of  gold  she  combs  it, 

And  combing,  low  singeth  slie— 
A  song  of  a  strange,  sweet  sadness, 

A  wonderful  nielodj\ 

The  sailor  sliudders  ns  o'er  him 

The  strain  comes  floating  by ; 
He  sees  not  the  cliffs  before  him — 

He  onl_y  looks  on  high. 

Ah!  round  him  the  dark  waves,  flinging 
Their  arms,  draw  him  slowly  down — 

And  this,  with  her  wild,  sweet  singing, 
The  Lorelei  has  done. 

Mr.  C.  G.  Leland  has  done  his  cleverest  and  best  with  this 
that  follows,  but  you  might  as  well  seek  to  translate  a  violet 
into  verse  as  seek  to  render  in  language  other  than  its  own 
the  delicate  sentiment,  the  exquisite  rhythm,  of  the  German 
original.     It  bears  no  title  : 

Tliou'rt  like  a  lovely  floweret, 

So  void  of  guile  or  art ; 
I  gaze  upon  thy  beauty, 

And  grief  steals  o'er  my  heart. 

I  fain  would  lay,  devoutly, 

My  hands  upon  thy  brow, 
And  pray  that  God  will  keep  thee 

As  good  and  fair  as  now. 


Heine.  315 

Longfellow  as  translator  has  laid  the  magic  of  his  touch  on 
some  of  Heine's  songs.  The  following  is  a  version  by  Long- 
fellow : 

The  sea  it  hath  its  pearls, 

The  heaven  hatli  its  stars, 
But  ray  heart,  my  lieart, 

My  lieart  hath  its  love. 

Great  are  the  sea  and  tlie  heaven, 

Yet  greater  is  ray  heart, 
And  fairer  than  pearls  and  stars 

Flashes  and  beams  my  love. 

Thou  little,  j^outhfiil  maiden. 

Come  unto  my  great  heart ; 
My  heart,  and  the  sea,  and  the  heaven 

Are  melting  away  witli  love. 

This,  next  to  be  given,  is  not  unlike  in  motive.  There  is 
a  remarkable  monotony  in  change — like  the  moan  of  the 
sea  unseen  lieartl  ceaselessly  underneath  all  the  other  noises 
of  nature — prevailing  through  Heine's  songs.  Longing  not 
satisfied,  and  never  to  be  satisfied,  sad  presentiment  and 
sad  reminiscence,  love  and  loss,  make  up  the  burden  of  the 
best  of  them  all.  Bitter  mockery  not  seldom  breaks  the 
sweetness  into  discord.  The  following  translation  is  a  speci- 
men of  Mr.  Leland's  workmanship  in  its  finest  felicity: 

Thou  gentle  ferry  maiden, 

Come,  draw  thy  boat  to  land, 
And  sit  thee  down  beside  me, 

We'll  talk  with  hand  in  hand. 

Lny  thy  head  against  my  bosom. 

And  have  no  fear  of  me; 
Dost  tiiou  not  venture  boldly 

Each  day  on  tlie  roaring  sea? 

My  heart  is  like  the  ocean, 

Tt  hath  storm,  and  ebb,  and  flow; 
And  many  a  pearl  is  hidden 

In  its  silent  depths  below. 


316  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 


One  more  song  and  the  singer  shall  be  still.  We  iind  our 
translation  in  the  North  American  Review  for  July,  1849: 

A  lonely  fir-tree  standeUi 

On  a.  chilly  northern  height; 
Tlie  snow  and  the  ice,  while  it  sleepeth, 

Weave  round  it  a  garment  white. 

It  dreameth  of  a  palm-tree 

Thar,  far  in  the  eastern  laud, 
Alone  and  silent  mournetli 

On  its  plain  of  burning  sand. 

Did  not  Heine,  on  his  death-bed,  at  last  become  religious? 
Our  own  answer  we  have  already  implied;  but  let  us  have 
testimony  furnished  from  the  pen  of  Heine  himself.  He  did 
make  a  quasi-religious  confession  ;  but  he  spoke,  making  it, 
in  his  old  character,  that  of  mocker — a  character  held  by 
him,  say  rather  holding  him,  to  the  last.  What  a  cruel,  in- 
evitable clutch,  as  of  the  cat  that  may  play  with  her  cap- 
tive but  that  will  by  no  means  let  him  go  !  Here,  then,  is 
what  Heine,  prefacing  a  publication  of  his,  says  of  his  own 
final  religious  state.  We  find  our  transl'ation  in  the  Fort- 
nightly Review,  1869.  The  translator  makes  silent  omissions 
at  points.  These  we  indicate,  or  else  restore  the  matter 
omitted.  We  also  make  a  few  changes  for  better  expression 
of  the  author's  meaning  : 

When  we  lie  on  our  death-bed  we  become  very  gentle  and  tender- 
liearted,  and  would  willingly  make  peace  with  God  and  man.  T  confess 
I  have  scratched  many,  and  bitten  many,  and  been  no  lamb.  But  believe 
me,  those  bepraised  lambs  of  mildness  would  behave  themselves  less 
piously  if  they  possessed  tiie  teetli  and  the  claws  of  the  tiger.  I  can 
glory  that  I  have  only  seldom  used  such  native  weapons.  .  .  .  But  since 
I  have  stood  in  need  of  God's  mercy  I  have  made  a  truce  witli  all  my 
foes ;  many  beautiful  poems,  which  were  directed  against  very  high  and 
very  low  persons,  are  for  that  reason  excluded  from  the  present  collec- 
tion. Poems  which  contained  half-way  personalities  against  the  dear 
God  I  have  committed  to  the  flames  with  the  zeal  of  fear.  It  is  belter 
that  the  verses  should  burn  than  the  versifier.  Yes,  I  have  made  peace 
with  the  Creator  as  well  as  with  the  creature — to  tJie  great  displeasure  of 
my  enlightened  friends,  who  reproach  me  for  my  relapse  into  the  old  su- 


Heine,  317 

perstition,  as  they  are  pleased  to  call  my  return  to  God.  Otiiers  express 
themselves  with  still  bitterer  intolerance.  Allicism's  Convocation  has 
pronounced  its  anathema  over  me,  and  there  are  certain  fanatical  priests 
of  unbelief  who  would  willingly  place  me  on  tiie  rack  to  make  mo  re- 
nounce my  lieterodoxy.  Happily,  they  have  no  instruments  of  torture  at 
command  except  their  writings.  But  I  will  confess  every  thini,'  without 
torture.  I  have  really  returned  to  God,  like  the  prodigal  son,  after  feed- 
ing swine  with  the  Hegelians  for  many  years.  The  divine  home-sickness 
came  npon  me,  and  drove  me  forth,  through  woods  and  vales,  over  the 
dizziest  mountain  pathways  of  dialectic.  On  my  way  I  found  the  god  of 
the  pantheists,  but  I  could  make  nothing  of  him.  This  poor  visionary 
creature  is  interwoven  with  and  grown  into  the  world.  Indeed,  he  is  al- 
most imprisoned  in  it,  and  yawns  at  j'ou,  without  voice,  without  power. 
To  have  will  one  must  have  personalitj',  and  to  manifest  one's  self  one 
must  have  elbow-room.  .  .  . 

In  theology  I  admit  my  backsliding,  .  .  .  but  I  nnist  cxpresslj^  contra- 
dict the  report  that  it  has  brought  me  to  the  bosom  or  the  threshold  of 
any  Church  whatever.  ...  I  have  abjured  nothing,  not  even  my  pagan 
gods,  from  whom  it  is  true  I  have  parted,  but  only  in  friendship  and  love. 

How  this  man  cajoles  you  \\\\\\  the  play  of  his  mockery  ! 
But  be  gentle  toward  him,  for  not  less  he  also  cajoled  him- 
self. If,  however,  lighting,  for  instance,  upon  some  such 
charming  utterance  from  Heine  as  is,  in  part,  the  one  about 
to  be  given,  you  are  temj)ted  for  a  moment  to  think  that 
iierhaps  this  writer  is  cruelly  misjudged  to  have  been  only  a 
mocker,  you  may  justly  then  set  yourself  right  again  by  re- 
calling the  mocking  ambiguous  tenor  of  that  religious  con- 
fession of  the  dying  man's  of  which  you  have  just  noAV  had  a 
taste.  You  might  almost,  when  you  read  the  first  part  of 
the  following,  think  it  was  Renan  making  his  Galiltean  idyll 
of  Jesus  : 

How  beautiful,  how  serenely  fair,  how  unutterably  sweet  was  the 
Christianity  of  the  early  centnrie.s,  while  it  still  lesembled  its  divine 
founder  in  the  heroism  of  suffering!  There  lingered  yet  the  beautiful 
story  of  an  niideclared  divinity,  who  wandered  in  the  fair  form  of  youth 
under  the  palms  of  Palestine,  who  preached  love,  and  revealed  the  doc- 
trines of  freedom  and  equality  which  the  reason  of  the  yreatcst  thinkers 
has  since  recognized  as  true.  Compare  with  that  religion  of  Christ  the 
several  Christianities  that  have  been  established  in  the  several  countries 
as  state  religions — the  Roman  Catholic  Chnrcli,  or  that  Catholicism  with- 


318  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

out  poetry  wliich  we  see  prevailing  in  England  as  High  Church — that 
decaying  skeleton  of  belief  from  which  all  bloom  and  life  have  passed 
away. 

How  far  off  after  all  Heine  was  from  truly  appreciating 
the  serious,  the  religious,  spirit  of  Luther,  whom  he  praised, 
and  of  Protestantism,  let  the  following  expressions  of  his 
show.  This  shallow  brain,  this  shallower  heart,  thought 
that  lascivious  painting  was  a  better  protest  against  the 
Roman  Catholic  Church  than  were  the  theses  of  Luther  ! 
Heine: 

The  painters  of  Italy  engaged  in  far  more  effective  polemics  than  did 
the  Saxon  theologians.  The  blooming  flesh-tints  upon  the  paintings  of 
Titian  are  all  Protestantism.  The  graces  of  his  Venus  are  more  real 
theses  than  those  which  the  German  monk  fixed  on  the  church  door  of 
Wittenberg. 

Heine  Avrote  as  if  afraid  to  be  candid — lest  for  one  dreadful 
moment  he  might  possibly  be  dull.  He  was  as  inevitably,  as 
unalterably,  a  jester  as  was  Lucian.  He  was  even  more  in- 
capable of  seriousness  than  was  Voltaire.  It  thus  seems 
quite  impossible  to  judge  him  at  all  in  any  other  capacity 
than  that  of  a  wit  and  a  mocker,  whether  in  his  prose  or  in 
his  verse.  He  sentimentalized  indeed,  but  this  Avas  chiefly 
that  he  might  finish  by  mocking  at  his  own  sentiment,  and  also 
at  you  for  having  been  cheated  into  taking  him  seriously. 
He  called  himself  a  "  soldier  in  the  war  for  the  liberation  of 
humanity,"  and  the  merit  of  being  this  has  been  somewhat 
too  gravely  accorded  to  him  by  Mr.  Matthew  Arnold.  But 
Heine  is  hardly  in  any  sense  to  be  reckoned  a  beneficent 
power  in  literature.  Such  a  spirit  as  his  is  a  blight  rather 
than  a  blessing  to  whatever  it  touches.  Sorrowfully  we  say 
this,  confessing  ourselves  susceptible,  exquisitely  susceptible, 
to  the  charm  of  his  genius  and  his  wit,  and  remembering  also 
the  heavy  lot  that  so  long  was  his  of  helplessness  and  of 
pain.  Nothing  perhaps  could  better,  as  with  a  concentrated 
solar  ray,  imprint  on  the  imagination  of  the  reader  a  final 
image,  at  once  faithful  and  pathetic,   of  Heine — the  whole 


Heine.  3 1 9 

man,  his  genius,  his  wit,  liis  character,  and  his  misfortune — 
than  the  following  expression  of  his  concerning  himself  : 

The  great  author  of  tlie  universe,  the  Aristophaues  of  heaven,  has  re- 
solved that  the  Httle  author  on  earth,  the  so-stjled  "  Aristophanes  of 
Germany,"  shall  feel,  to  iiis  inmost  soul,  what  insignificant  needle-pricks 
his  most  brilliant  sarcasms  have  been,  compared  with  the  awful  thunder- 
bolts which  his  divine  humor  can  hurl  against  weak  mortals. 

After  the  audacity  and  the  pathos  of  words  like  those,  one 
feels  like  being  "  dumb  with  silence."  Indeed,  what  could 
possibly  be  said  that  would  not  rather  harm  than  help  the 
sentiment  inspired  of  mingling  admiration,  horror,  and  pity  ? 


XIII. 

EPILOGUE. 


The  author's  preface  is  usually  in  effect  the  author's  epi- 
logue. But  in  the  present  case  the  preface  going  before 
seems  not  quite  to  make  unnecessary  something  following 
after,  to  say  a  few  things  still  left  unsaid,  such  as  the  author, 
in  retrospect  of  his  labor  accomplished,  would  naturally  feel 
like  saying  to  a  kindly  interested  friend  at  his  side. 

W«  shall  hardly,  we  presume,  in  the  opinion  of  any,  have 
made  the  mistake  of  admitting  German  literary  names  not 
worthy  to  be  included  in  a  book  like  this.  We  may  further, 
with  some  confidence,  assume  that  the  proportion  of  space 
here  allotted  to  one  name  and  another  will  generally  l)e 
allowed  as  approximately  true  to  their  comparative  iini)or- 
tance  taken  in  connection  with  their  adaptedness  to  interest 
a  popular  audience  of  readers.  Yet  again.  We  cannot  have 
gone  widely  astray  in  choosing  from  among  the  various  pro- 
ductions of  each  several  author  the  one,  or  tlic  ones,  best  de- 
serving to  be  shown  to  our  readers.  Of  course,  in  seeking 
to  strike  the  right  critical  tone  for  appreciation  of  different 
authors  aixl  (lin'cicnt  masterpieces   there  is  more   chance  of 


320  Classic  Gennan  Course  in  Miglish. 


failure.  At  this  point  we  cannot  suppose  ourselves  fortunate 
enough  so  to  have  hit  the  mark  as  to  unite  all  qualitied  suf- 
frages in  our  favor.  What  we  do  hope  is  that  all  Judges 
will  agree  in  clearing  us  of  intentional  unfairness.  If  we 
have  anywhere  through  ignorance  made  false  statements  as 
of  fact,  we  shall  on  conviction  confess  ourselves  blamewor- 
thy; though  no  writer  is  bound  to  know  every  thing,  every 
writer  is  at  least  bound  to  know  what  he  undertakes  to  tell 
as  of  knowledge. 

The  present  writer  profoundly  believes  that^for  the  inter- 
ests of  literature,  quite  apart  from  the  interests  of  life,  noth- 
ing is  more  fatal  than  to  attempt  the  divorce,  in  thought  and 
in  judgment,  of  character  from  genius,  of  morality  from  lit- 
erary production.  He  has  criticised  constantly  in  view  of 
this  principle.  His  ethical  judgments  may  thus  properly  be 
regarded  as  pronounced  less  in  the  behoof  of  ethics  than  in 
the  behoof  of  letters.  Bad  men  have  sometimes  been  good 
writers,  and,  alas,  on  the  other  hand,  too,  good  men  have 
sometimes  been  bad  writers;  there  is  no  certain  inference 
possible  in  cither  direction — from  character  to  pi-oduction  or 
from  production  to  character.  Still,  for  ourselves,  we  freely 
confess,  Ave  consider  it — and  this  purely  as  a  matter  of  liter- 
ary criticism — of  the  two  courses,  safer  to  infer  from  a  man's 
known  evil  life  and  character  that  there  must  be  flaw  in  his 
literaiy  performance  than,  inversely,  to  infer  from  the  appar- 
ent excellence  of  his  literary  work  that  his  life  and  character, 
though  apparently  evil,  must  really  be  good.  That  which  is 
in  character  will  generally  come  out  in  production,  whether  the 
production  be  of  art  or  of  literature.  Such  correspondence — 
often  latent,  but  seldom  lacking,  especially  where  the  question  is 
of  poetry — between  what  an  author  is  and  what  that  author 
does,  it  is,  in  each  case,  within  the  just  province  of  literary  criti- 
cism to  divine  and  discover.  The  danger  to  the  critic  of  undue 
personal  bias,  adverse  or  favorable,  existing  on  his  own  })art, 
as  to  the  man  whom  he  criticises,  is  always  great.  One  criti- 
cising must  task  one's  self  to  be  fair — alike  to  the  author  con- 
sidered and  to  the  cause  of  good  literature. 


Epilogne.  321 

There  are  many  Geriuan  writers  absent  even  in  name  from 
the  preceding^  P'ige!^>  whom,  if  this  were  a  history  of  German 
literature,  it  would  be  an  unpardonable  deficiency  not  at  least 
to  have  mentioned  and  characterized.  We  should  need,  for 
instance,  to  have  told  how  Kotzebue,  the  playwright — what 
with  talent  and  what  with  impudence — pushed  himself  to  the 
front,  alongside  of  Goethe  and  of  Schiller,  in  the  public 
attention,  and,  with  his  century  or  more  of  successful  i)lays, 
renewed  on  German  soil  that  tradition  of  fecundity  in  pro- 
duction for  dramatists  which  is  among  the  wonders  of  Greek 
literary  history.  Kotzebue,  to  be  sure — worked  over  and 
adapted  in  our  own  language  by  Sheridan — is  known  among 
us  to  spectators  of  the  drama,  by  some  plays  of  his  re- 
markable for  effective  situation  and  eloquent  dialogue ; 
witness  his  Incas  in  Peru,  more  recognizable  under  its 
English  alias  of  Pizarro.  But  Kotzebue  Avas  more  nearly  a 
charlatan  than  a  classic  in  German  literature.  The  same 
may  be  said  of  Werner,  who  may  be  described  as  a  kind  of 
exaggeration,  a  reduction  to  absurdity,  of  Schiller. 

The  philosophers,  likewise,  one  would  wish  to  have  shown 
something  of  ;  all  the  more  from  the  fact  that  metaphysic 
speculation  in  Germany  has  so  vitally  affected  German  literary 
development — Kant,  for  instance,  having  imposed  the  mold 
of  his  system  on  Schiller's  later  i)roduction,  and  Fichte  and 
Schelling  having,  through  their  idealism  in  philosophy,  pre- 
pared the  way  for  romanticism  in  literature.  Jacobi,  indeed, 
among  German  philosophers,  unites  a  literary,  with  his  })hilo- 
sophical,  claim  to  attention,  which  well-nigh  persuaded  us  to 
give  him  place  in  the  company  of  our  select  German  im- 
mortals. The  same  like  thing  might  be  said  of  Schleiermacher 
among  theologians  ;  for  Schleiermacher  translated  Plato  into 
German.  Among  preachers,  Krummacher  ai)pealed  to  us  for 
inclusion  ;  and  more  strongly  still,  Theremin,  a  writer  on 
sacred  ekxpience,  who  most  felicitously  joined  a  delightful 
lucidity  in  exposition,  inherited,  with  his  blood,  from  France, 
to  a  singular  philosophical  depth  and  suggestiveness,  comnui- 
nicated,  perhaps,  by  some  commingling  of  German  in  his 
14* 


322  Classic  German  Course  in  English. 

nearer  ancestrj^  The  name  of  Kniminacher  as  preacher  re- 
calls that  preacher's  father.  The  elder  Krummacher  was 
author  of  many  "parables,"  over  Avhich  the  present  writer 
long  affectionately  delayed  befoue  he  could  bring  himself  to 
give  up  showing  them  in  specimen  to  the  readers  of  this  book. 
Some  glance  at  more  recent  German  literature  might  ap- 
pear to  be  natural  here.  But  the  truth  is,  interests  other  than 
literary  have,  since  Goethe's  death,  for  the  most  part  absorbed 
the  intellectual  energies  of  Germany.  Revolutionary  up- 
heaval, beginning  about  1848,  soon  subsided,  or  was  soon  sup- 
pressed, into  a  stagnation  and  torpor  inifriendly  to  literary 
achievement.  Political,  philosophical,  and  scientific  activity, 
predominating  later,  left  literature  proper  to  languish.  Ma- 
terialism, too — a  spirit  naturally  enough  engendered  under  the 
incubus  of  heavy  military  establishments,  which  made  peace 
itself  seem  like  war — invaded  the  land  of  ideas.  As  a  conse- 
quence of  these  things,  and  as  a  consequence  too — so,  at  least, 
the  present  writer  ventures  to  think — of  a  sterilizing  influence 
exerted  by  Goethe,  who  in  literature  added  nothing,  unless  it 
were  the  idea  of  self -culture  as  the  great  thing  in  life,  to  the 
stock  of  human  ideas,  and  who  set  the  example  of  endlessly 
elaborating  the  old,  in  place  of  fruitfully  originating  new — 
at  any  rate,  for  some  reason  or  reasons,  within  the  last  fifty 
years,  no  distinctively  literary  name,  except  Heine,  stands 
out  with  a  prominence  at  all  comparable  to  his.  Schopen- 
hauer is  not  a  distinctively  literary  name,  though  he  did 
write  his  oppressive  philosophy  in  almost  a  literary  style;  but 
Schopenhauer,  whose  pessimistic  speculation  has  registered  so 
deep  a  score  in  modern  human  thought,  and  whose  fame  and 
influence  seem  in  origin  only  of  to-day,  in  fact  Avrote  his  chief 
work  before  Goethe  died.  Germans  have  indeed  continued 
to  think,  all  the  time  that  they  have  been  with  long  patience 
schooling  themselves  to  be  the  chief  military  power  in  Europe; 
but  they  have  not  meantime  produced  any  recognized  master- 
pieces of  literature.  In  history,  however — not  only  in  politi- 
cal history,  but  in  history  of  philosophy,  of  letters,  of  art, 
and  of  culture — they   have    achieved   praiseworthy   things. 


Epilogue.  323 

German  fiction,  also,  has  of  late  been  illustrated  with  some 
noteworthy  names. 

We  could  hardly  hope  to  make  even  ai)})roximately  apprehen- 
sible to  our  readers  the  self-denials  which  the  necessary  limits 
of  space  imposed  upon  us  as  to  the  authors  to  be  here  in- 
cluded. As  to  the  things  to  be  included  from  tlie  authors  finally 
chosen,  the  case  was  yet  more  trying.  We  can  truthfully 
testify  that  merely  to  select  and  condense  the  translated  ex- 
tracts that  appear  in  the  foregoing  pages  has  cost  much  more 
labor  and  thought  than  to  write  the  original  text  that  intro- 
duces or  accompanies  them. 

The  eifort  has  constantly  been  to  treat  and  to  show  the 
authoi's  selected,  not  in  such  a  manner  that  readers  testing 
our  results  by  the  current  criticism  of  the  da}^  woidd  find  us 
in  accord  with  prevailing  opinion ;  but  in  such  a  manner  that 
readers  subsequently  pushing,  however  far,  their  study  of 
any  particular  author  himself  should  at  no  time  have  just  oc- 
casion to  say  that  we  had  seriously  misled  them. 


INDEX. 


We  undertake  here  simply  to  furnish  a  few  practical  suggestions,  such  as 
may  help  those  entirely  unacquainted  with  German  to  mal<e  some  tolerable 
approach  to  the  -true  pronunciatiou  of  the  proper  names  with  which  they 
will  meet  in  reading  this  book. 

The  sounds  of  the  simple  vowels  in  German  are  easy  to  learn,  because 
they  are  consistently  uniform.  The  quantity  may  be  long  or  short,  but  the 
quality  remains  the  same.  A  has  the  sound  of  a  in  ah,  e  the  sound  of  a  in 
ak,  i  (and  ie)  of  e  in  etl,  o  of  o  m  no,  u  oiu  in  sure.  The  obscure  sound  of  e, 
in  unaccented  syllables,  is  nearly  like  English  e  in  ebh,  given  very  liglilly.  Of 
the  diphthongs,  ai  and  ei  have  very  nearly  the  sound  of  English  long  i,  au 
has  the  sound  of  oic  in  novj,  eu  very  nearly  the  souud  of  oi  in  oil.  A,  o,  and 
u  are  severally  combined  with  e  to  produce  what  are  called  umlauts  (oom- 
lowts).  Tlie  umlauts  are  oftenest  noted  by  two  dots  over  the  principal 
vowel,  thus  :  ae=a,  oe==6,  ue=ii.  Ae,  or  il.  sounds  like  the  German  vowel 
e;  0  is  sounded  by  making  up  the  mouth  to  say  o,  and  then  saying  a  (as  in 
alt) ;  ii  by  making  up  the  mouth  to  say  u  (as  in  sure),  and  tlien  saying  ee. 
The  combination  ilu  sounds  like  eu.  Doubling  a  vowel,  as  aa,  ee,  oo,  merely 
lengthens  the  proper  sound  of  thai  vowel ;  the  same  is  true  of  Ii  following  a 
vowel. 

There  are  no  silent  voivels  in  German.  (Ie=i  is  an  apparent  exception.) 
Eacii  vowel  (or  diphthong)  makes  a  syllable.  For  example,  Undine  would  in 
German  be  pronounced  Oondee  nek. 

The  consonants  h  and  d  are,  when  final,  generally  sharpened  into  jj  and 
i  respectively.  G,  beginning  a  word  or  a  syllable,  is  always  hard,  as  in 
gun.  J  has  the  sound  of  y  beginning  a  syllable.  W,  beginning  a  word 
or  a  syllable,  is  sounded  by  making  up  the  month  to  say  w  (as  in  we),  and 
then  saying  v;  in  otiier  words,  a  German  w  is  an  English  v  pronounced  with 
the  lips  without  the  aid  of  the  teeth.  V  is  sounded  like  f.  Ch  initial  is 
sounded  like  k;  elsewhere  like  k  gently  roughened  in  utterance,  as  if  you 
were  clearing  your  throat.  The  combination  ng  never  in  German  is  separated 
in  pronunciation,  as  sometimes  it  is  in  English ;  for  example,  finger,  in  Ger- 
man, rhymes  strictly  with  singer,  anger  witli  hanger.  Sch  has  the  sound  of  sh. 
Ih  has  the  sound  of  t. 

The  full  name  of  the  greatest  literary  man  of  Germany  will  serve  to  ex- 


Classic   German  Course  in  English — Index.         325 

emplify  many  of  the  foregoing  hints.  Joliami  Willielin  von  Goethe  is  pro- 
nounced Yo'han  ViV helm  f one  Goe'teh.  (The  syllable  Goe  has  very  nearly  the 
sound  of  the  first  syllable  \u  the  English  word  guerdon,  with  the  ?•  left  un- 
pronoiinced.) 

The  names  of  authors  treated  in  the  preceding  pages  \\'M\  a  greater  or 
less  degree  of  fullness  are  here  distinguished  from  tliose  of  authors  but  in- 
cidentally mentioned,  by  being  printed  with  capital  letters  and  in  a  heavier 
type. 


Abbado'na.    46-50. 

Ab'diel.    46-48. 

Adram'elech.  48. 

^s'chvlus  (B.  C.  525-456).    117. 

^'sop  (tl.  560  B.  C).    60,  61. 

Alexander  the  Great  (B.  C.  356-32.3).     116. 

Auae'reon  (B.  0.  563'?^78).    85. 

A.XGELlS?,  pseudonym    for  St'HEFF- 

LEK,  wiiich  see. 
Antdiii  iius.  Marcus  Aurelius  (121-180).  134. 
Arlostn  (1471-1533).    89. 
Aristophaues  (B.  C.  444  ?-;580?).     117,  319. 
Ar'istutle  (B.  C.  384-322).    57.  58. 
AR.NUI,   Ernst  Moritz   (1769-1860).     14, 

155,  1.56. 
Arnold,  Matthew  (1822-        i.    318. 
AtJiiiuvuiii  (London).    299. 

Bell,  Captain  Henry.     26. 

Beranger,  Pierre  Jean  de  (1780-1857).  293. 

Bernard  of  Clairvaux  (1091-1153).    11. 

Bismarck  (1815-        ).    155. 

Bknktniiiirs  Maiiazine.    296. 

Bodmer,  Johauu  Jakob  (1698-1783).  13,  54, 

55,  85. 
Boliiigbroke  (1678-1751).    117. 
Bonnet,  Charles  (1720-1793).    62,  63,  65. 
Borne,  Ludwiir  (1786-1837).    193. 
Bossut't,  Jaiques  Benigne  (1627-1704).  118. 
Brooks,  C.  T.  (1813-1883).    20,  111,  125,  210, 

211,  214. 
BR  l'X,Friederike  Sophie  Christiane  (1765- 

18:}5>.    154. 
Brvant,  William  Culleu  (1794-1878).    159, 

312. 
BURNER,  Gottfried  August  (1748-1794). 

151-1.54,  297. 
Burke,  Edmund  (1729  or  1730-1797).    104. 

Caesar,  Talus  Julius  (B.  C.  100-44).    114. 
Calderon  (de  la  Barca)  Pedro  (1600-1081). 

274. 
Carlvle,  Thomas    (1795-1881).    20,  31,  56. 

197,  201,266,277,  280. 
CatliiTine  II.  (Empress  of  Russia)  U729 

1796).    76. 
C'H\>II8SO    (Shii-mis'o),    Adalbert  von 

(1781-18:W).    283-287. 
Channing,  W.  H.  (1810-1884).     199,  227. 
Charlemagne  (742-814).    87,  9.5,  99. 
Charlotte.    174,  17.5. 
Chateaubriand,  Fran(;ois  Rene  de   (176H- 

1818).    312. 
Chaucer,  Geoffrey  (1338  ?-1400).  97. 


Coleridge,    Samuel     Taylor    (1772-1834). 
20,  45,  53,  l;i4,  154,  220,  259,  260,  263,  292. 
CollytT,  Joseph.    46. 
0'/((// 1  iidtiniial  Magazine.   43. 
Constantine  the  Great  (272-337).    101. 
Corueille,  Pierre  (1606-1684).    263,  264. 
Craneh,  C.  P.  (1813-        ).  a30,  231,  313,  314. 

Dante  (1265-1321).    40,  274. 
Demosthenes  (B.  C.  385  5'-322).    117. 
Descartes  (1590-1650).    58. 
Dickens,  Charles  (1812-1870).    270. 
Diderot,  Denis  (1713-1784).    58,  77. 
Don  Quixote.    88. 
Duntzer,  H.    177,  178. 
Dwight,  John  S.  (1813-        ).     181,  231,  232, 
236. 

Eckermann,    Johann    Peter    (1792-1854). 

162,  169,  191,  192,  265. 
EtUnbiavh  Ucvkiv.    240,  293. 
Electress  of  Brandenburg.    146. 
Emerson,  Ralph  Waldo   U803-1882).    208, 

221. 
Enc>idopa;dia  Britannka.    169,  170. 
Epicte'tus  (60-120  V).    134. 
Epicu'rus  (B.  C.  342-270).    162. 
Erasmus  (1467-1536).    30. 
Eurip'ides  (B.  C.  480-406).    117,  185,  186. 

Faustus,  Johannes  (1480?-15:38  ?).    206. 
Felton,  C.  C.  (1807-1862).    20,  158. 
Fichte,  Johann  Gottlieb  (1762-1814).    16, 

321. 
Firdusl  (940?-1020i').    276. 
Fdvtuiylitlfi Review.    316. 

FOl  «tl  E,  Friedrich  Heinrieh  Karl,  Baron 
de  la  Motte  (1777-1843).  287-292. 

Francis  (Saint)  of  Assisi  (1182-1226).     134. 

Frederica.    164-169,  179. 

Frederick  the  Great  (in2-1788).  12,  13, 
57,  78,  105,  149. 

Fuller,  Margaret  (1810-18.50).    181. 

GELLERT,  Christian  Fiirclitegott  (1715- 

17ti9).     13,  148,  149. 
GERHARDT,   Paul   (1(;07-1676).     11,14, 

143-145. 
Gcrvinus,  Georg  (iottfiled  (1805-1871).    85. 
(iirardin,  Saint-Marc  (1801-1873).    100. 
Glover,  Richard  (1712-1785).    5;1. 
GUE'I'HB,  Johann  Wolfgang  von  (1749- 

1832).     8,  13,  14,  15,  44,  51.  .58,  59,  60,  72, 

75,  78,  79,  84,  85,  86, 101, 102,  104,  106, 107. 


326  Classic  German  Course  in  English — Index. 


1U8,  109,  110,  111.  112,  1-w,  120,  135,  136, 
137,  l;}8,  154,  ltiO-221,  224,  220,  227,  229, 
23.),  2.36,  24;3,  24(i,  247,  248,  2tJ4,  2(i5,  271, 
275,  27(i,  2S7,  293,  297,  313,  321,  322. 

Guldsiuith,  Oliver  UT28-1774).    \m. 

Gdttsched,  Johaim  Cliristopli  (1700-1760). 
13. 

Grimm,  Hermann  ^iviii?).    172,  208,  209. 

GKI  WM ,  Jacob  Ludwig  Karl  (1785-1S63). 
15,  277-280. 

GRIMM,  VVilhelm  Karl  (1786-1859).  15, 
277-280. 

Gunther,  M.    36. 

Gustavus  Adolphus  (1594-1632).  145,  249, 
250. 

Hahnemann,  Samuel  Christian  Friedrich 

(170.V1843).    272. 
Hale,  Edward  Everett  (1822-       ).    286. 
Hall,  Robert  (1764-1831).    79. 
Hamann,  Johann  Georg  (1730-1788).    106, 

121. 
HARDEXBKRG,  Friedrich  vou(Novalis) 

(1772-1801).    271-273. 
Hawthorne,  Nathaniel  (1804-1864).    270. 
Hazlitt,  William  (1778-1830).    26.  a4. 
Hedge,  F.  H.  (1805-        ).    20,21,32,35,39, 

167,  209,  276. 
Hegel,   Georg   Wilhehn  Friedrich    (1770- 

1S31).     16. 
HEIXE,   Heinrich   (1799-1856).    8,  14,  20, 

30,  35,  50,  00,  84,  102,  297-319,  322. 
Henry  VIII.  of  England  (1491-1547).    34. 
Henry  of  Navarre  (Henry  IV.  of  France, 

155:^1610).    298. 
HERDER,  Johann  Gottfried  von  (1744- 

1803).     13,  15,  78,  84,  80, 104-122, 130,  137, 

140,  lii4,  169,  172,  277. 
HOFFMAIVW,    Ernst    Theodor    Wilhelm 

Amadeus  (1776-1822).    15,  280-283. 
Homer.    79,  103,  116,  117,205,  208,  236. 
Horace.     150. 

Hosmer,  James  K.    21,  142. 
Humboldt,  Ale.xandervon  (1769-1R59).   294. 
Humboldt,  Willielin  von  (1767-18;3o).    15. 
Hutten,  Ulrich  von  (1488-1523).    9. 

Jacobi,  Friedrich  Heinrich  (1743-1819). 
175,  321. 

Kalb,  Madame  von.    1.37,  1-38. 

Kant,   Immanuel  (1724-1804).     10,  62,  106, 

108,  321. 
Karl  August.    178,  229. 
KeTiler.  Johann  (1.571-16.30).    10. 
KERIVER,  Justinus  Andreas  (1786-1802). 

159. 
Kestner.    173. 

Kleist,  Ewald  Christian  (171.5-1759).    1.50. 
KLOPtsTOfK.  Friedrich  Gottlieb  (1724- 

1803).    8,  13,  14,  40-56,  57,  76,  ai,  a5.  111, 

119,  211. 
Knebel,  Karl  Ludwig  (1744-1834).    1.36,  138. 
Korner,  Christian  Gottfried.    107. 108, 109, 

170,   171,    195,   223,    224,    225,    226,    228, 

294. 
RORNER,  Karl  Theodor  (1791-1813).    14, 

155,  1.50,  1.57,  193,  294,  295. 
Kotzebue,    August    Friedrich   Ferdinand 

(1761-1819).    321. 


Krummacher,  Friedrich  Adolf  (1768-1845). 

322. 
Krununacher,   Friedrich    Wilhelm    (1796- 

1868).     321. 

La  Bruyere,  Jean  (1646  ?-1696).    1.30. 
Lafontaine,  Jean  de  (1621-1695).    149. 
Lamartine,  Alphonse  Marie  Louis  de  (1790- 

1809).    107. 
Lavater,  Johann  Kaspar  (1741-1801).    62, 

63,  64,  65,  130,  175,  177. 
Lee,  Mrs.  E.  Buckmlnster.    139. 
Leibnitz,  Gottfried  Wilhelm   von    (1640- 

1716).    10. 
Leiand,  C.  G.  (1824-        ).    301,   303,  314, 

31,5. 
LESSIiXG,  Gotthold  Ephraim  (1729-1781). 

13,  14,  15,  .56-83,  84,  206,  275. 
Lili.     179,  180,  181. 
Lonsfellow,  Henry  Wadsworth  (ia)7-1882). 

154,  184,  295,  290.  315. 
Lotte.     173,  176,  179. 
Louis  XIV.,  the  Great    (1638-1715).     129, 

287. 
Lowell,  .James  Russell  (1819-       ).    73, 129. 
Lucan  (39  ?-65).    20;3. 
Lueian  (120?-200?).    318. 
LL'THER,  Martin  (148:3-1546).    8,  9,  10, 

11,  13,  14,  16,  19,  24-40,  50,  58,  141,206, 

318. 

Macpherson.  James  (1738-1796).    276. 
Margaret  (Gretchen).    2>»9,  213-219. 
Marlowe,    Christopher    (1564-1593).     306, 

207. 
Melanchthon,   Philip  (1497-1560).    2.5,  27, 

28,  32,  33,  m.  206. 
,>IE\'l)ELSSOHIV,  Moses  (1729-1786).    62- 

60,  76. 
Mendelssolin.  Felix  (1809-1847).    62. 
Mcnzel,  Wiilfirang  (1798-1873).     17. 
Merck,  Johann  Heinrich  (1741-1791).    172, 

173. 
Michelet,  Jules  (1798-1874).    27,  29,  34. 
Mignon.    198-201. 
Milton,  John  (1608-1674).    12,  1.3, 44,  45,  .53, 

5.5,  101,  117,  119,  190,  211. 
Molicre  (1622-1673).    14,  59. 
Moltke,  Helmuth  von  (1K(X)-        ).    1.55. 
Mommsen,    Christian    Matthias    Theodor 

(1H17-        ).    1.5,  114. 
Montesquieu,  Charles  de  Secondat  de  (10S9- 

17.55).     113,  118. 
Morlev,  Henry  (1822-        ).    26,  207. 
Morle'y,  John  (l.s:38-        ).    58. 
Muller,  Max  (182:3-        ).    22. 
iMlLLER,  Niclas  (1809-1875).    159. 
Murat,  Joachim  (1771-1815).    .304. 
Musaeus,  Johann  Karl  August  (17.35-1787). 

277. 

Napoleon  Bonaparte  (1769-1831).    40,  10,>, 

103,  175,  194,  :300,  304,  :i06,  .308. 
Neander,  Johann  August  Wilhelm  (1789- 

18.VI).     1.5. 
Newman,  A.  H.    35. 
Newton,  Sir  Isaac  (1642-1727).    192. 
Nibelunsren  Lied.    9,  14,  271. 
M(;OL4l,     Christoph    Friedrich    (1733- 

1811).    76-78,86. 


Classic  German  Course  in  English — Index.         327 


Niebuhr,  Barthold  Georg  (1776-18:3]).    15, 

;ho.->. 
Aiirtli  America)}  Eeriew.    316. 
XOVALIS,  pseudonym  of  Frieiirlcli  vou 

Hardeuberj?  (177:^-1801).    271-:i73. 

Oftprdincrt'n,  Heiurich  von  (fl.  l^iOO?).  271. 

Oliil/,  Mill  tin  (1597-16;i9).    11. 

( issian  (iiivthicul,  about  :iOOV).    44, 103, 175, 

Percy.  Thomas  (1728-1811).    151. 

Pericles  (B.  C.  495  ?-429).    117. 

Petronius  Ai'biter.    176. 

Pfraiiffer.    75. 

Phelps,  Miss  E.  S.  (1844-        ).     38. 

Platen,   August  von  (1796-1835).    309-^31i. 

Plato  (B.  C.  429  ?-348  ?).    321. 

Plutarch  (49  ?-130?).    134. 

Poe,  Edjjar  Allan  (1809-1849).    282. 

Propertius  (B.  C.  51-16?).     129,  138. 

R  A>ILER,  Karl  Wilhelm  (172.^1798).  1.50. 
Ranke,  Leopold  von  (1795-1886).    15. 
Renan,  Joseph  Ernest  (182.'?-        ).    317. 
RU-H'I'ER,   Jean    Paul   (1763-1825).    13, 

18,  19,  86,  111,  119,  120,  122-139,  140,177. 
Ripley,  (ieorgre  (1S(I2-1S.S0).    20. 
Rochefoucauld  (La)  (1613-1680).    130. 
Rousseau,  Jean  Jacques  (1712-1778).    19, 

29,  128,  132,  176,  312. 
RICKERT,  Friedrich  (1789-1866).     158. 

SAf'HS,  Hans  (1494-1576).    9,  140-143. 

Saladin  (1137-1193).    61,66-69,74. 

Sancho  Panza.    88,  94. 

SiC'HEFFLEK,  Johann  (ANGELUS) 
(1624-1677).     146,  147. 

Schelling,  Friedrich  Wllhelm  Joseph  (1775- 
ia54).    16,  321. 

Scherer,  W.  (1841-1886).    22,  54,  72,  205, 

SCHILLER,  Johann  Christoph  Fried- 
rich von  (1759-1805).  13-15,  72,  77,  78, 
84,  86,  107-109,  127, 138,  160,  170,  171,  178, 
185,  194,  195,  221-264,  275,  276,  287,  297, 
.313,821. 

SCHLEGEL,  August  Wilhelm  von  (1767- 
18451.     15, 273-275. 

SCHLEGKL,  Friedrich  Carl  Wilhelm  von 
(1772-1829).    273-277. 

Schleierniacher,  Friedrich  Daniel  Ernst 
(1768-18;34).     321. 

Schopenhauer,  Arthur  (1788-1860).    322. 

Scott.  Sir  Walter  (1771-18;i2).  151,  152,  172. 

Seelev,  J.  R.  (is:i4?-        ).    115. 

Shakespeare,  William  (1564-1616).  117, 
ri2,  172,  20(i,  2IIS,  2t«,  271,  275. 

Shelley,  Percy  Bysshe  (1792-1822).    210. 

Sheridan,  Richard  Brinsley  (1751-1816). 
321. 


Sihler,  Miss  Elizabeth.    310. 
S(«rales  (B.  C.  47(iV-.399).     117,  202. 
Sophocles  (B.  C.  495?-406?).     78-80,  117. 
Sotheby,  William  (1757-18:ii).    89.  97. 
Spinoza,  Baruch  or  Benedict  (16;J2-1677). 

19,  65,  66,  118,  273. 
Stael,  Madame  de  (1766-1817).    277. 
Stein  (Fran  von).    168,  171,  177,  1T8. 
Sterne,  Laurence  (1713-1768).    :}02. 
Svvanwick,  Miss  Anna.    190,  210. 

Taylor.  Bayard  (1825-1878).    102,  210. 
Taylor,  W.    51.  58,  59,  68,  73,  76,  119,  149, 

150. 
Taylor,  Jeremy  (Bishop)  (1613-1667).    44. 
Teh  Brook,  Andrew.    249. 
Tennyson,  Alfred  (1809-        ).    101. 
'rERfJTEE«Ei\,    Gei'hardt    (1697-1769). 

147.  148. 
Thackeray,    William    Makepeace    (ISll- 

mm).    175. 
Theremin.  Franz  (17R3-1846).    321. 
Thomson,  James  (1700-1748).    150. 
TIECR,  LudwiK  (1773-185:3).    15, 208,  205- 

271,  280. 
TIED'GE,  Christoph  August  (1752-1841). 

154. 
Tyndall,  John  (1820-       ).    192. 
Tyi  tieus  (7th  century  B.  C).    129,  1:38. 

LI1LA\D,   Johann  Ludwlg    (1787-1802). 
14,  292-297. 

Virgil  (B.  C.  70-19).    78,  79,  82. 

Voltaire,   Francois   Marie    Arouet    (1694- 

1778).    25,  57,  84,  85,  86,  92,  226.  300,  318. 
VOSS,  Johann  Heinrich  (1751-1826).    :36, 

205,  206. 
Vulpius,  Christiane.    170,  171,  178. 

Wallenstein  (Waldstein)  (1583-1634).    246- 

250. 
Weimar.    17,  85,  107,  108,  120,  129, 136-1:38, 

168,  170, 171,  184. 
Werner,    Friedrich    Ludwig    Zacharias 

(1768-1823).    321. 
Wesley,  John  (170:3-1791).    11.  143. 
WIELAXD,  Christoph  Martin  (17:33-1813). 

13,  77,  8:3-102,  1:36,  i:37.  176,  275. 
William  (Emperorof  Germany)  (1797-       ). 

12. 
Winckelmann,     Johann    Joachim    (1717- 

1768).     15,  7S-80,  H2. 
Winkworth,  Miss  Catherine.    144. 
Wolf.  Friedrich  August  (1759-1824).    208. 
Wordsworth,  William  (1770-1850).    5:3. 

Young,  Edward  (1684-1765).    44,  45,  52. 

Zelter,  Karl  Friedrich  (1768-1832).    195. 


AFTER-SCHOOL  SERIES 

COMPRISING 

*    PREPARATORY  GREEK  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH 
*  *    PREPARATORY  LATIN  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH 
*  *  *   COLLEGE  GREEK  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH 
*  *  *  *  COLLEGE  LATIN  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH 
*****  CLASSIC  FRENCH  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH 
******  CLASSIC  GERMAN  COURSE  IN  ENGLISH 


BY  WILLIAM  CLEAVER  WILKINSON. 


OPINIONS, 


Rev.  HOWARD  CROSBY,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  late  Chancellor  of  the  University 
of  the  City  of  New  York,  says  [of  the  "  Greek  "  volumes]  : 

I  know  no  Sanskrit.  If  a  Sanskrit  scholar  should  give  me  in  English  a 
clear  view  of  the  Sanskrit  literature  in  its  style  and  spirit,  so  tiiat  I  could  be 
familiar  with  it  in  all  its  relations  (saving  the  actual  acquaintance  with  the 
language),  I  should  be  greatly  benefited  and  delighted.  It  is  just  this  grand 
help  that  Professor  Wilkinson  has  given  to  the  enlightened  reader  who  does 
not  happen  to  know  the  Greek  language,  and  who  has  not  time  to  acquire  it. 
His  Gvetk  Course  is  clear,  attractive,  and  Judicious  in  its  treatment  of  the 
subject,  and  fills  a  valuable  place  in  our  literature. 

Professor  HENRY  DRISLER,  LL.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Greek 
in  Columbia  College,  and  American  Editor  of  Liddell  &  Scott's  Greek  Lex- 
icon, says : 

I  concur  in  the  main  in  Dr.  Crosby's  commendation  of  Professor  Wilkin- 
son's Greek  Course. 

Professor  A.  C.  KENDRICK,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of 
Greek  in  the  University  of  Rochester,  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek  "] : 

Its  execution  seems  to  me  very  felicitous;  it  is  marked  by  the  taste  and 
scholarship  which  were  to  be  expected  from  its  accomplished  author. 

1 


After-School  Series. 


Professor  JAMES  R.  BOISE,  LL.D.,  formerly  head  of  the  Department  of 
Greek  in  the  University  of  Michigan,  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek"]: 

The  idea  of  the  work  is  original,  and  the  execunon,  like  every  thing  which 
Professor  "Wilkinson  uudert<ikes,  is  excellent.  The  book  must  prove,  in 
more  ways  than  I  can  enumerate,  of  great  value  to  the  young  student. 

Again,  [of  the  Preparatory  Latin] : 

I  sliall  lose  no  opportunity  to  recommend  it. 

Professor  W.  W.  GOODWIN,  LL.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Greek  in 
Harvard  University,  authorizes  us 

To  repeat  his  already  expressed  "high  opinion  of  the  prepar.Uory  works'' 
of  this  series,  and  to  anticipate  his  equally  cordial  approval  of  and  interest 
in  tlie  whole  as  completed. 

Professor  HENRY  F.  BURTON,  Ph.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin 
in  the  University  of  Rochester,  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Latin  Course  '']  : 

You  have  certainly  made  an  exceedingly  readaljle  book.  The  familiar 
gossipy  style  which  you  adopt,  and  the  numberless  little  digressions  and 
allusions  and  quotations  b}^  which  you  enliven  the  natural  dryness  of  the 
subject,  cannot  fail  to  fix  the  attention  of  both  j'outhful  and  adult  readers. 
I  am  sure,  too,  that  the  beginner  in  Latin  will  get  from  the  book  a  large 
amount  of  information  upon  the  authors  he  reads  which  no  other  work,  and 
perhaps  no  teacher,  would  give  liim,  and,  what  is  more,  that  it  will  help 
greatly  to  give  life  and  reality  to  his  early  reading.  ...  As  one  interested 
in  the  advancement  of  Latin  studies,  I  thank  you. 

Professor  W.  S.  TYLER,  LL.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Greek  in 
Amherst  College,  says  [of  the  two  "  Preparatory  Courses  "]  : 

Kxecuted  with  sound  judgment,  much  learning,  and  good  taste. 

Miss  FRANCES  E.  LORD,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin  in  Welles- 
ley  College,  says  [of  the  "Preparatory  Latin  Course"]; 

A  volume  of  delightful  entertainment  and  much  valuabh!  inlbrmation. 

Professor  CHARLES  D.  MORRIS,  LL.D.,  of  Johns  Hopkins  University, 
Bays  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek  "] : 

Will  be  read  with  interest  and  profit,  not  only  by  persona  who  have  no 
other  knowledge  of  the  subject-matter,  but  also  by  those  who  may  wish  to 
revive  in  an  easy  way  knowledge  wliich  was  once  (iuniliar,  but  has  been 
allowed  to  drop  more  or  less  out  of  remembrance. 

Professor  E.  S.  SHUMWAY,  Ph.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin  in 
Rutgers  College,  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek  "] : 

I  wisli  tliat  I  could  induce  every  parent  in  tlie  hind  to  put  tlial  book  into 
his  child's  hands.  .  .  .  An  invaluable  service  to  the  oau.se  of  classical  culture. 

2 


After-School  Skries. 


A  second  and  third  reading  only  confirms  my  judgment,  and  adds  to  the 
wisli  that  my  early  lireek  teacher  had  possessed  such  an  aid. 

S.  C.  BARTLETT,  D.D.,  President  of  Dartmouth  College,  says: 

It  seejns  to  me  a  valuable  work,  highlj'  useful  and  iustiiictive  to  a  large 
class  of  thoughtful  persous  who  cannot  have  access  to  the  originals,  and 
calculated  lo  stimulate  and  expand  the  views  of  those  who  can. 

NOAH  PORTER,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  late  President  of  Yale  College,  says: 
I  have  examined  wiUi  some  care  the  volume  by  Professor  W.  C.  Wilkin- 
son, entitled  Preparatory  Greek  Course  in  English,  and  1  think  it  a  valuable 
addition  to  tlie  abundant  apparatus  which  is  now  furnished  to  the  young 
student  of  the  one  language  of  which  no  aspirant  for  complete  culture  can 
contentedly  remain  in  ignorance. 

JAMES  B.  ANGELL,  LL.D.,  President  of  the  University  of  Michigan, 
says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek  Course  "]  : 

I  have  found  myself  thoroughly  interested  from  the  beginning  to  the  end 
of  your  book. 

ALVAH  HOVEY,  D.D., President  of  Newton  Theological  Institution,  says: 

In  these  latter  days  I  do  not  often  read  a  volume  ilirough  from  begin- 
ning to  end,  without  omitting  a  chapter,  paragraph,  or  sentence.  But  I 
have  read  in  this  wa}'  3'our  Prejjaratory  Greek  Course,  simply  because  it  is 
so  instructive  and  captivating  a  volume  that  I  could  not  persuade  myself  to 
pass  over  an}^  word  of  it  unread. 

E.  G.  ROBINSON,  D.D.,  LL.D.,  President  of  Brown  University,  says  : 
Will  undoubtedly  do  a  good  service,  enabling  intelligent  readers  who  are 
unacquainted  with  Greek  to  attain  some  defiuite  conception  of  the  literature 
of  tliat  language,  as  well  as  enlightening  aud  quickening  into  intellectual 
life  many  a  student  who  otherwise  might  know  little  or  nothing,  beyond  his 
mere  lesson,  of  the  book  he  was  reading. 

Rev.  J.  H.  VINCENT,  D.D.,  Chancellor- of  Chautauqua  University,  says: 

I  have  just  finished,  for  my  own  instruction,  reading  j'our  Preparatory 
Greek  Course  in  English.  ...  It  is  a  complete  success  in  every  way,  aud  I  read 
it  with  the  greatest  enthusiasm. 

T.  J.  MORGAN,  D.D.,  Principal  of  the  State  Normal  School,  Providence, 
B.  I.,  says : 

An  admirable  book,  unique  and  happy  in  design,  and  well  executed.  I 
wish  I  might  have  had  it  while  pursuing  my  classical  studies  in  college. 

S.  L.  CALDWELL,  D.D.,  late  President  of  Vassar  College,  says: 

As  the  idea  is  capital,  tlie  execution  i«  equally  good.  The  whole  book 
shows  ample  knowledge  and  good  taste,  aud  is  far  enough  from  any  dullness 


After-School  Series. 


such  as  infects  some  books  of  this  kind.     Any  intellijreiit  person,  and  even 
one  well  read  in  Greek,  may  read  it  to  tind  it  slimulaliug  and  instructive. 

Again  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Latin  "] : 

I  tind  ii  very  interesting  reading. 

GEORGE  D.  B.  PEPPER,  D.D.,  President  of  Colby  University,  says : 

It  is  well  fitted  to  stimulate  to  a  thorough  Greek  scholarship,  and  equally 
fitted  to  serve  an  admirable  purpose  for  those  who  can  never  study  the 
Greek. 

Again  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Latin  "]  : 

Not  till  this  very  morning  have  I  completed  its  perus.il.  I  have  been 
unable  to  content  myself  with  any  omissions. 

Professor  E.  P.  MORRIS,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin  in  Williams 
College,  says  [of  the  series] : 

A  genuine  contribution  to  the  .spread  of  the  classical  spirit  among  us  here. 

Professor  W.  F.  ALLEN,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin  in  the  Uni- 
versity of  Wisconsin,  says : 

It  seems  to  me  that  it  is  better  adapted  to  give  non-classical  readers  a 
notion  of  what  classical  literature  is  tliiui  any  other  book  with  which  I  am 
acquainted.     I  shall  look  with  interest  for  the  succeeding  volumes. 

Again  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Latin  "J  : 

I  will  only  reiterate  in  general  what  I  said  then  in  relation  to  tiie  new 
book. 

C.  K.  ADAMS,  LL.D.,  President  of  Cornell  University,  says  [of  the  "  Pre- 
paratory Greek  Course  "J : 

I  found  almost  notliing  to  criticise.  ...  In  short,  the  book  as  a  whole 
is  remarkably  well  adapted  to  tempt  the  reader  to  a  further  acquaintance 
with  Greek  literature  and  life.  And  this  is  Faying  mucli ;  for,  in  these  busy 
and  distracting  times,  education  is  apt  to  drift  away  from  the  safe  anchorage 
of  the  classics,  and  whatever  tends  to  hold  it  to  its  moorings  performs  a 
service  for  wliioli  all  scholars  should  be  grateful. 

Professor  HENRY  S.  FRIEZE,  LL.D.,  head  of  the  Department  of  Latin 
in  the  University  of  Michigan,  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Latin  "] : 

It  cannot  fail  to  do  good  in  opening  a  new  world  of  thought  and  expression 
to  those  who  have  no  access  to  it  through  the  Latin  originals,  and  in  thus 
enlarging  the  circle  of  readers  and  scholars  interested  in  classical  literature. 
I  trust  nothing  will  interrupt  your  plan  of  adding  more  advanced  works  of 
a  similar  kind  to  the  series.  Tliey  will  together  form  a  valuable  contribu- 
tion to  the  history  of  classical  literature. 

4 


After-School  Series. 


Mr.  C.  E.  MELENEY,  Superintendent  of  Public  Instruction,  Paterson, 
N.  J.,  writing  to  S.  A.  ELLIS,  Ph.D.,  Superintendent  of  Public  In- 
struction, Rochester,  N.  Y.,  says : 

In  reply  to  your  inquiry  as  to  the  success  of  Dr.  Wilkinson's  Preparatory 
Greek  Course  in  English,  I  may  say  that  it  is  entirely  sutisCactory.  The  pu- 
pils are  much  interested  in  it,  and  tlie  teacher  likes  it  also.  We  will  take 
up  the  Latin  next  term. 

Miss  ABBY  A.  JUDSON,  Principal  of  Judson  Female  Institute,  Min- 
neapolis, Minn.,  says: 

When  conducting  a  class  of  married  ladies  engaged  in  tlie  study  of  ancient 
Greece  last  winter,  the  most  helpful  books  that  I  found  were  the  Preparatery 
and  College  Greek  Courses  of  Professor  Wilkinson.  The  books  were  at  that 
time  new  to  me,  and  I  have  a  vivid  remembrance  of  being  held  by  them  to 
a  late  hour  of  the  night,  absorbed  in  communion  with  Plato  and  Homer  and 
Xenophon. 

My  graduating  class  have  been  in  ihe  habit  of  using  Felton's  Lectures  on 
Greek  Literature;  but  I  expect  to  adopt  these  admirable  books  by  Professor 
Wilkinson  in  the  coming  school  year. 

Eev.  T.  W.  GOODSPEED,  D.D.,  Corresponding  Secretary  of  the  Baptist 
Theological  Union  (Chicago)  says  : 

Wiicn  my  two  sons  were  preparing  for  college  I  bought  your  English 
Latin  and  Greek  preparatory  books  for  tliem.  They  have  this  year  entered 
college,  and  I  have  given  them  each  montii  an  allowance  for  the  purchase 
of  books  of  their  own  choosing.  Without  suggestion  from  me,  they  chose 
and  bought  first  of  all  your  Latin  and  Greek  College  Course  in  English. 

Professor  MOSES  COIT  TYLER,  LL.D.  (Cornell  University)  says  [of  the 
"  Preparatory  Greek  Course  "]  : 

I  have  just  been  looking  over  your  book,  witli  real  delight  in  the  ingenious 
and  simple  plan  of  it,  and  in  its  felicitous  execution. 

EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN  says  [ol  the  "  College  Greek  Course  "] : 

In  the  seclusion  that  this  island  grants  I  have  had  a  chance  to  enjoy  the 
volume  quite  thoroughly.  In  fact,  I  have  read  pretty  mucii  all  of  it.  .  .  . 
Your  presentation  of  Plato,  Aristophanes,  and  Demosthenes  struck  me  as 
being  peculiarly  apt  and  instinctive. 

THOMAS  WENTWORTH  HIGGINSON  says : 

Your  book  I  iiave  read  with  much  pleasure.  ...  In  speaking  of  Aris- 
tophanes I  think  you  do  not  render  justice  to  his  poetic  beauty,  especially 
to  the  "  Birds,"  which  is  the  "  Midsummer  Night's  Dream  "  of  antiquity.  .  .  . 
I  know  that  there  are  many  who  will  be  grateful  for  just  such  a  book. 


After-School  Series. 


"WILLIAM  C.  CONANT,  in  "  Vidi  Correspondence,"  speaks 

Of  the  rich  clussic  tone  witli  wliioli  Professor  ^\'llki^soll's  own  st\'le  and 
substiince  are  so  delightfully  penetrated,  while  so  free,  so  humorous,  shrewd, 
and  Amerieau. 

The  "  Nation  "  says  : 

Of  all  the  devices  for  introducing  non-classical  readers  to  a  knowledge 
of  the  ancient  classics,  we  are  inclined  to  think  that  Mr.  Wilkinson's  (or 
Dr.  Vincent's,  for  to  him  the  compiler  gives  the  credit  of  the  idea)  is  the 
most  efifective.  ...  It  really  gives  one  a  higher  respect  for  oui'  preparatory 
course  to  see  how  effective  it  is.  .  .  .  We  think  we  may  safely  predict  that 
the  four  volumes  will  present  a  unique  and  very  satisfactory  view  of  ancient 
literature  for  non-classical  readers. 

Again : 

Tiie  Preparatory  Latin  Course  in  English  is  a  companion  to  the  Prejtara- 
tory  Greek  Course  of  the  same  editor,  which  we  noticed  a  few  months  ago. 
It  has  the  same  general  character,  and  the  same  excellences  in  e.\ecution, 
while  it  shows  a  readier  and  more  experienced  hand. 

Again : 

^\'c  are  inclined  to  rate  his  last  published  volume,  College  Greek  Course 

in  English,  as  tlie  best  of  the  llu-cc  tlial  have  appeared. 

Again  [of  the  "  College  Latin  Course  in  English  "] : 
A  work  fully  deserving  the  high  commendation  wliich  we  have  bestowed 
upon  the  earlier  volumes. 

The  "  Independent  "  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek  Course  "] : 
We  have  examined  the  book  willi  luuisual  care,  and  with  our  doubts 
liovering  near  as  to  the  question  whether  this  were  not  anotiier  attempt 
to  acquire  the  French  language  in  English,  or  to  achieve  something  else 
wthout  achieving  it.  But  our  doubts  are  laid.  There  is  a  large  class  of 
people  who  will  find  this  book  exceedingly  useful. 

The  "  Examiner  "  (New  York)  says  [of  the  "  Preparatory  Greek  "] : 
Here  we  have  a  popular  book  prepared  by  a  writer  ot  first-rate  ability', 
and  we  are  assured  that  he  has  given  to  the  making  of  it  iiis  best  thought 
and  skill.  .  .  .  We  trust  that  no  one  of  our  readers  will  do  himself  the 
injustice  of  failing  to  read  this  book. 

Again : 

The  attentive  reader  of  the  Preparatory  Latin  Course  in  English  will  have 
a  far  more  adequate  idea  of  Latin  literature  than  is  acquired  by  the  average 
student  previous  to  matriculation  in  college.  .  .   . 

The  long  chapter  ou  "  The  City  and  the  People  "  we  think  unsurpassed  iu 


After-School  Series. 


English  historical  literature  as  regards  philosophical  insight,  grandeur,  and 
sustained  eloquence. 

Again  [of  the  "  College  Latin  Course  "] : 

Of  this  last  volume  we  need  only  say  that  it  equals  in  freshness,  in  schol- 
arly diligence,  and  in  literary  merit  its  three  predecessors.  .  .  .  We  cannot 
have  too  many  books  such  as  Dr.  Wilkinson  has  given  us,  and  we  cannot 
have  them  too  widely  read. 

The  "  Christian  Union  "  says  : 

It  is  a  pleasure  to  examine  so  careful  and  conscientious  a  piece  of  schol- 
arly workmanship  as  Professor  W.  C.  Wilkinson's  Preparatory  Lalin  Course 
in  English.  Perhaps  noiliing  better  can  be  said  of  it  than  iliat  it  is  worthy 
to  take  its  place  witli  its  companion  volume,  the  Prtparatury  Greek  Course 
in  English. 

A  brief  and  yet  thoroughly  trustworthy  presentation  of  the  literature  and 
thought  of  a  great  nation  is  a  work  which  demands  thoroughgoing  sciiolar- 
ship  and  a  trained  literary  instinct.  In  this  volume  Professor  Wilkinson 
shows  ample  competency  for  the  task  which  he  had  imposed  upon  himself. 
.  .  .  Professor  Wilkinson  has  succeeded,  in  a  word,  in  sketching,  with  a 
bold,  free,  and  sure  hand,  the  outlines  of  the  mental  and  moral  life  of  one 
of  the  great  dominant  races  of  antiquity. 

The  "  Literary  World  "  (Boston)  says  : 

A  briglit  and  useful  book.  .  .  .  The  author  acts  as  a  personal  instructor, 
and  takes  the  pupil  into  his  confidence,  who  thus  gains  much  of  the  inspira- 
tion which  is  usually  to  be  liad  only  from  the  living  teacher. 

The  "  American  Knral  Home,"  Rochester,  N.  Y.,  says : 

So  clear,  so  fresh,  so  learned,  and  yet  so  simple  in  his  pnsentation,  so  dis- 
cursive often  and  so  happy  altogether,  that  one  reads  it  as  if  it  were  romance, 
until,  reading  it  thoroughly,  one  ma}^  know  nearly  as  much  of  the  three 
Greek  works  most  familiar  as  the  college  graduate  knows.  It  is  such  a 
book  as  it  seems  somebody  should  have  given  us  long  ago,  and  yet  just  such 
a  book  as  no  one,  we  suspect,  but  Dr.  Wilkinson  could  have  made. 

The  "  Westminster  Review  "  says: 

Popular  works  of  this  kind  \_Colk(je  Greek  Course  in  English'],  so  far  from 
degrading  classical  literature,  or  making  the  ignorant  f;uicy  that  they  have 
the  key  to  all  knowledge,  are  genuine  cultivators  of  the  public  taste. 

The  "  Methodist  Quarterly  Review  "  says  : 

Tlie  writer  gives  Irank  credit  to  Dr.  Vincent  for  the  origination  of  the 
idea  of  this  volume,  as  Avell  as  ample  suggestions  in  its  production ;  and 
the  compliment  might  be  reciprocated  that  he  has  filled  out,  and  more  than 
filled  out,  the  programme  with  eminent  ability  and  success.  .  .  .  Ic  furnishes 


After-School  Series. 


to  the  young  stiulent  a  clear  idea  of  what  he  is  going  about.  ...  In  the 
okleu  lime  his  Latin  grammar  was  put  into  liis  hands,  then  liis  manual  of 
selections,  with  dictionary,  then  his  Virgil,  and  he  plodded  like  a  miner  cut- 
ting a  tunnel  tlirougli  a  rock.  A  V)ook  like  this  would  have  thrown  an  illu- 
mination around  his  path,  revealing  to  him  where  lie  was,  and  what  the 
surroundings  of  the  route  lie  was  obliged  to  pursue.  Mr.  Wilkinson  has 
done  his  work  in  the  best  manner,  varying  his  style  through  a  variety  of 
changes,  now  clieerily  colloquial,  now  running  an  even  level,  and  anon  rising 
with  graceful  ease  into  a  strain  of  lofty  eloquence. 

The  "  Methodist  Quarterly  Review  "  (South)  says  : 

As  even  the  graduates  of  our  colleges  cannot  compass  the  wliole  range  of 
Greek  and  Latin  autliors,  and  but  few  entire  works  of  any  author,  this  series 
is  worthy  of  their  earnest  attention  as  well  as  that  of  the  persons  who  have 
never  entered  college.  .  .  .  Mr.  Wilkinson's  series  is  worthy  of  all  com- 
mendation. 

The  "  Southern  Quarterly  Review  "  says  [of  the  "  College  Latin  Course 
in  English  "]  : 

The  present  volume  seems  to  be  even  superior  to  its  companions.  The 
great  utility  of  these  books  will  hardly  bo  denied  by  any  thoughtful  person. 
To  those  who  cannot  obtain  a  classical  education,  they  will  open  up  the 
rich  field  of  ancient  thought  and  life,  of  which  liiey  must  have  otherwise 
remained  deeply  ignorant. 

The  "  Reformed  Quarterly  Review  "  says  [of  the  "  College  Latin  Course 
in  English  "]  : 

Exceedingly  readalile  and  instructive.  The  work  throughout  bears  abun- 
dant evidence  to  the  scholarsiiip  and  literary  ability  of  its  author. 

The  "  Atlantic  Monthly  "  says  : 

Writes  with  liveliness  and  with  a  manifest  determination  that  the  reader 
shall  find  the  Greek  writers  as  hiunan  and  as  interesting  as  English  or 
American  ones. 

The  ''  Louisiana  Journal  of  Education"  says  : 

Higii-schools  and  academies  in  which  Greek  is  taught  should  be  furnished 
with  a  copy  of  this  admirable  work  for  the  benefit  of  their  pupils  and 
classes.  The  analysis  of  Homer's  Iliad,  illustrated  by  quotations  from  the 
best  translators,  may  be  read  with  interest,  even  by  scholars  sufficiently  ad- 
vanced to  comprehend  and  enjoy  the  original. 

The  "  Visitor  and  Teacher  "  (Kirksville,  Mo.)  says  : 

We  liave  read  many  of  our  best  novels  and  found  none  more  thoroughly 
enjoyable,  from  first  to  last,  than  this  work.  We  would  unhesitatingly  recom- 
mend it  to  all  lovers  of  good  literature. 


After-School  Series. 


The  "  Sunday-School  Journal  "  says : 

Many  a  college  graduate  will  get  more  idea  of  what  Herodotus  and  Plato 
and  Sophocles  have  really  written  by  the  reading  of  this  book  for  one  day 
than  they  received  during  their  whole  college  course. 

Of  the  "  Classic  French  Course  in  English,"  the  "  Tfation  "  says  : 

Mr.  William  Cleaver  Wilkinson  has  done  all  he  could  have  done  to  give, 
in  a  very  short  space,  a  compreheusive  view  of  French  literature.  .  .  .  After 
a  brief  introduction  he  has  a  short  study  on  Froissart.  Then  he  immedi- 
ately passes  on  to  Rabelais,  Montaigne,  La  Rochefoucauld,  La  Bruyere, 
ending  with  Voltaire,  Rousseau,  and  the  Encyclopaedists.  .  .  .  Mr,  Wilkin- 
son has  very  ably  made  the  most  of  the  space  allotted  to  hiin.  .  .  .  The 
author  has  one  great  merit:  he  is  always  interesting,  and  will  certainly 
make  his  readers  wish  for  more  information  on  the  subjects  he  presents  so 
lelicitously. 

Of  the  same  book  the  "  Independent  "  says : 

...  It  needs  Ijut  a  moment's  reflection  to  perceive  tliat  Prof.  W.  C.  Wil- 
kinson had  a  more  difBcult  task  before  him  in  arranging  the  last  volume  of 
the  "After-School  Series,"  Classic  French  Course  in  English,  than  in  his 
earlier  compilations  from  the  Latin  and  Greek.  .  .  .  The  manual  is  written 
in  a  wholesome  love  of  Saxon  purity,  and  kept  up  to  the  liigh  standard  pu- 
ellis  virginib usque.  This  is  a  great  achievement  for  a  manual  of  French  lit- 
erature. .  .  .  Mr.  Wilkinson  writes  with  a  sprightlj%  as  well  as  graceful, 
pen,  atid  has  brought  together  skillfully  in  the  narrow  limits  assigned  him 
by  tlie  projectors  of  the  series,  the  essential  elements  of  a  popular  manual. 
...  It  hardly  need  be  added  that  the  work  is  done  on  a  high  plane  of 
Christian  criticism  and  review. 


Of  the  five  earlier  volumes  of  the  present  series,  nearly 
200,000  copies  have  already  been  sold.  The  volumes  are 
sold  separately. 


CHAXJTATJQXJ^    P»RESS, 

805   BROAD"WAY,    N.  Y. 
9 


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UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 

This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


JUN 1  9  1951 


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